The  Rettifh  of  the  OMahony 


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M a rdWI  Frederic 


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THE 

RETURN  OF  THE  O'MAHONY. 


By  Permission  of  the  Critu 

HAROLD  FREDERIC 


KOSEBUD,  SO.  DAK. 
THE 


RETURN  OF  THE  O'MAHONY 


31  Noocl. 


BV 

HAROLD    FREDERIC, 

Author  of  ''The  Lawton  Girl^'  "■  iieth's  Brother's  Wife,"  etc. 
WitM  illvstsations  by  warren B.  SAVie. 


NEW    YORK: 
G.    W.   Dillingham    Co.,    Publishtrs. 

MDCCCXCIX. 


COPTHIOHT,  1892, 
BT  HUBERT  BONNKB'S  SONS. 


(A.II  ri0ht8  reserved.) 


The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE   FATHER   OF   COMPANY   F. 

EKE  TISDALE  was  the  father 
of  Company  F.  Not  that  this 
title  had  ever  been  formally  con- 
ferred upon  him,  or  even  recog- 
nized in  terms,  but  everybody 
understood  about  it.  Some- 
times Company  F  was  for  whole 
days  together  exceedingly  proud 
of  the  relation — but  alas !  more 
often  it  viewed  its  parent  with 
impatient  levity,  not  to  say  contempt.  In  either 
case,  it  seemed  all  the  same  to  Zeke. 

He  was  by  no  means  the  oldest  man  in  the  com- 
pany, at  least  as  appearances  went.  Some  there 
were  gathered  about  the  camp-fire,  this  last  night 
in  March  of  '65,  who  looked  almost  old  enough  to 

[7] 


8  The  Return   of  The  G Mahony. 

be  his  father — gray,  gaunt,  stiff-jointed  old  fighters, 
whose  hard  service  stretched  back  across  four  years 
of  warfare  to  Lincohi's  first  call  for  troops,  and  who 
laughed  now  grimly  over  the  joke  that  they  had 
come  out  to  suppress  the  Rebellion  within  ninety 
days,  and  had  the  job  still  unfinished  on  their  hands 
at  the  end  of  fourteen  hundred. 

But  Zeke,  though  his  mud-colored  hair  and  beard 
bore  scarcely  a  trace  of  gray,  and  neither  his  placid, 
unwrinkled  face  nor  his  lithe,  elastic  form  sug- 
gested age,  somehow  produced  an  impression  of 
seniority  upon  all  his  comrades,  young  and  old 
alike.  He  had  been  in  the  company  from  the 
beginning,  for  one  thing  ;  but  that  was  not  all.  It 
was  certain  that  he  had  been  out  in  Utah  at  the 
time  of  Albert  Sidney  Johnston's  expedition — per- 
haps had  fought  under  him.  It  seemed  pretty  well 
established  that  before  this  Mormon  episode  he  had 
been  with  Walker  in  Nicaragua.  Over  the  mellow- 
ing canteen  he  had  given  stray  hints  of  even  other 
campaigns  which  his  skill  had  illumined  and  his 
valor  adorned.  Nobody  ever  felt  quite  sure  how 
much  of  this  was  true — for  Zeke  had  a  child's  disre- 
gard for  any  mere  veracity  which  might  mar  the 
immediate  effects  of  his  narratives — but  enough 
passed  undoubted  to  make  him  the  veteran  of  the 
company.     And  that  was  not  all. 

For  cold-blooded  intrepidity  in  battle,  for  calm, 
clear-headed  rashness  on  the  skirmish-line,  Zeke  had 
a  fame  extending  beyond  even  his  regiment  and  the 
division  to  which  it  belonged.  Men  in  regiments 
from,  distant  States,  who  met  with  no  closer  bond 
than  that  they  all  wore  the  badge  of  the  same  army- 


The  Father  of  Company  F, 


corps,  talked  on  occasion  of  the  fellow  in  the  — ;h 
New  York,  who  had  done  this,  that  or  the  other 
dare-devil  feat,  and  yet  never  got  his  shoulder-straps. 
It  was  when  Company  F  men  heard  this  talk  that 
they  were  most  proud  of  Zeke — proud  sometimes 
even  to  the  point  of  keeping  silence  about  his  failure 
to  win  promotion. 

But  among  themselves  there  was  no  secret  about 
this  failure.  Once  the  experiment  had  been  made 
of  lifting  Zeke  to  the  grade  of  corporal — and  the 
less  said  about  its  outcome  the  better.  Still,  the 
truth  may  as  well  be  told.  Brave  as  any  lion,  or 
whatever  beast  should  best  typify  absolute  fearless- 
ness in  the  teeth  of  deadly  peril,  Zeke  in  times  of 
even  temporary  peace  left  a  deal  to  be  desired. 
His  personal  habits,  or  better,  perhaps,  the  absence 
of  them,  made  even  the  roughest  of  his  fellows 
unwilling  to  be  his  tent-mate.  As  they  saw  him 
lounging  about  the  idle  camp,  he  was  shiftless, 
insubordinate,  taciturn  and  unsociable  when  sobei", 
wearisomely  garrulous  when  drunk — the  last  man 
out  of  four-score  whom  the  com.pany  liked  to  think 
of  as  its  father. 

And  Company  F  had  had  nothing  to  do,  now,  for 
a  good  while.  Through  the  winter  it  had  lain  in 
its  place  on  the  great,  steel-clad  intrenched  line 
which  waited,  jaws  open,  for  the  fall  of  Petersburg. 
The  ready-made  railroad  from  City  Point  was  at  its 
back,  and  food  was  plenty.  But  now,  as  spring  came 
on — the  wet,  warm  Virginian  spring,  with  every 
meadow  a  swamp,  every  road  a  morass,  every  piece 
of  bright-green  woodland  an  impassable  tangle — the 
Strategy  of  the  closing  act  in  the  dread  drama  sent 


lo  TJie  Return  of   The  O'Mahony. 

Company  F  away  to  the  South  and  West,  into  the 
desolate  backwoods  country  where  no  roads  existed, 
and  no  foraging,  be  it  never  so  vigilant,  promised 
food.  The  movement  really  reflected  Grant's  fear 
lest,  before  the  final  blow  was  struck,  Lee  should 
retreat  into  the  interior.  But  Company  F  did  not 
know  what  it  meant,  and  disliked  it  accordingly, 
and,  by  the  end  of  the  third  day  in  its  quarters,  was 
both  hungry  and  quarrelsome. 

Evening  fell  upon  a  gloomy,  rain-soaked  day, 
which  the  men  had  miserably  spent  in  efforts  to 
avoid  getting  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  in  devices 
to  preserve  dry  spots  upon  which  to  sleep  at  night. 
Permission  to  build  a  fire,  which  had  been  withheld 
ever  since  their  arrival,  had  only  come  from  division 
headquarters  an  hour  ago;  and  as  they  warmed 
themselves  now  over  the  blaze,  biting  the  savorless 
hard-tack,  and  sipping  the  greasy  fluid  of  beans  and 
chicory  from  their  tin  cups,  they  still  looked  sulkily 
upon  the  line  of  lights  which  began  to  dot  the  ridge 
on  which  they  lay,  and  noted  the  fact  that  their 
division  had  grown  into  an  army  corps,  almost  as  if 
it  had  been  a  grievance.  Distant  firing  had  been 
heard  all  day,  but  it  seemed  a  part  of  their  evil  luck 
that  it  should  be  distant. 

They  stared,  too,  with  a  sullen  indifference  at  the 
spectacle  of  a  sergeant  who  entered  their  camp 
escorting  a  half-dozen  recruits,  and,  with  stiff  saluta- 
tion, turned  them  over  to  the  captain  at  the  door  of 
his  tent.  The  men  of  Company  F  might  have 
studied  these  bounty-men,  as  they  stood  in  file  wait- 
ing for  the  company's  clerk  to  fill  out  his  receipt, 
with  more  interest,  had   it   been  realized   that   they 


The  Father  of  Company  F.  ii 

were  probably  the  very  last  men  to  be  enrolled  by 
the  Republic  for  the  Civil  War.  But  nobody  knew 
that,  and  the  arrival  of  recruits  was  an  old  story  in 
the  — th  New  York,  which  had  been  thrust  into 
every  available  hellpit,  it  seemed  to  the  men,  since 
that  first  cruel  corner  at  Bull  Run.  So  they 
scowled  at  the  newcomers  in  their  fresh,  clean 
uniforms,  as  these  straggled  doubtfully  toward  the 
fire,  and  gave  them  no  welcome  whatever. 

Hours  passed  under  the  black  sky,  into  which  the 
hissing,  spluttering  fire  of  green  wood  was  too  des- 
pondent to  hurl  a  single  spark.  The  men  stood  or 
squatted  about  the  smoke-ringed  pile  on  rails  and 
fence-boards  which  they  had  laid  to  save  them  from 
the  soft  mud — in  silence  broken  only  by  fitful 
words.  From  time  to  time  the  monotonous  call  of 
the  sentries  out  in  the  darkness  came  to  them  like 
the  hooting  of  an  owl.  Sharp  shadows  on  the  can- 
vas walls  of  the  captain's  tent  and  the  sound  of  voices 
from  within  told  them  that  the  officers  were  play- 
ing poker.  Once  or  twice  some  moody  suggestion 
of  a  "game  "  fell  upon  the  smoky  air  outside,  but 
died  away  unanswered.  It  was  too  wet  and  muddy 
and  generally  depressing.  The  low  west  wind 
which  had  risen  since  nightfall  carried  the  threat  of 
more  rain. 

"  Grant  ain't  no  good,  nor  any  other  dry-land 
general,  in  this  dripping  old  swamp  of  a  countr)-," 
growled  a  grizzled  corporal,  whose  mud-laden  heels 
had  slipped  off  his  rail.  "The  man  we  want  here  is 
Noah.     This  is  his  job,  and  nc'bod}'  else's." 

"  There'd  be  one  comfort  in  that,  anyway,''  said 


12  The  Rehivn  of  The  O'Ma/wny. 

another,  well  read  in  the  Bible.  "  When  the  rain 
was  all  over,  he  set  up  drinks." 

"  Don't  you  make  any  mistake,"  put  in  a  third. 
"  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  tent,  and  played  his 
booze  solitaire.  He  didn't  even  ask  in  the  officers 
of  the  ark  and  propose  a  game." 

"  1 — 1  've  got  a  small  flask  with  me,"  one  of  the 
recruits  diffidently  began.  "I  was  able  to  get  it 
to-day  at  Dinwiddie  Court  House.  Paid  more  for 
it  1  suppose,  than — " 

In  the  friendly  excitement  created  by  the  recruit's 
announcement,  and  his  production  of  a  flat,  brown 
bottle,  further  explanation  was  lost.  Nobody  cared 
how  much  he  had  paid.  Two  dozen  of  his  neigh- 
bors took  a  lively  interest  in  what  he  had  bought. 
The  flask  made  its  tour  of  only  a  segment  of  the 
circle,  amid  a  chorus  of  admonitions  to  drink  fair, 
and  came  back  flatter  than  ever  and  wholly  empty. 
But  its  ameliorating  effect  became  visible  at  once. 
One  of  the  recruits  was  emboldened  to  tell  a  story 
he  had  heard  at  City  Point,  and  the  veterans  con- 
sented to  laugh  at  it.  Conversation  sprang  up  as 
the  fire  began  to  crackle  under  a  shift  of  wind,  and 
the  newcomers  disclosed  that  they  all  had  clean 
blankets,  and  that  several  had  an  excess  of  chewing 
tobacco.  At  this  last,  all  reserve  was  cleared  away. 
Veterans  and  recruits  spat  into  the  fire  now  from  a 
common  ground  of  liking,  and  there  was  even  some 
rivalry  to  secure  such  thoughtful  strangers  as  tent- 
mates. 

Only  one  of  the  newcomers  stood  alone  in  the 
muddiest  spot  of  the  circle,  before  a  part  of  the  fire 
which  would    not  burn.     He   seemed   to   have  no 


The  Fathei'-  of  Company  F.  13 

share  in  the  confidences  of  his  fellow-recruits.  None 
of  their  stories  or  reminiscences  referred  to  him, 
and  neither  they  nor  any  veteran  had  offered  him  a 
word  during  the  evening. 

He  was  obviously  an  Irishman,  and  it  was  equally 
apparent  that  he  had  just  landed.  There  was  an  inde- 
finable something  in  the  way  he  stood,  in  his  manner 
of  looking  at  people,  in  the  very  awkwardness  Avith 
which  his  ill-fitting  uniform  hung  upon  him,  which 
spoke  loudly  of  recent  importation.  This  in  itself 
would  have  gone  some  way  toward  prejudicing 
Company  F  against  him,  for  Castle  Garden  recruits 
were  rarely  popular,  even  in  the  newest  regiments. 
But  there  was  a  much  stronger  reason  for  the  cold 
shoulder  turned  upon  him. 

This  young  man  who  stood  alone  in  the  mud — he 
could  hardly  have  got  half  through  the  twenties — 
had  a  repellent,  low-browed  face,  covered  with 
freckles  and  an  irregular  stubble  of  reddish  beard, 
and  a  furtive  squint  in  his  pale,  greenish-blue  eyes. 
The  whites  of  these  eyes  showed  bloodshot,  even  in 
the  false  light  of  the  fire,  and  the  swollen  lines 
about  them  spoke  plainly  of  a  prolonged  carouse. 
They  were  not  Puritans,  these  men  of  Company  F, 
but  with  one  accord  they  left  Andrew  Linsky — the 
name  the  roster  gave  him — to  himself. 

Time  came,  after  the  change  of  guard,  when  those 
who  were  entitled  to  sleep  must  think  of  bed.  The 
orderly-sergeant  strolled  up  to  the  fire,  and  dropped 
a  saturnine  hint  to  the  effect  that  it  would  be  best 
to  sleep  with  one  eye  open  ;  signs  pointed  to  a  bat- 
tie  next  day,  and  the  long  roll  might  come  before 
pibrtiihg:  broke.    Their  brigade  was  on  the  right  q[ 


14  The  Return    of  TJie  O' Makony. 

a  line  into  which  two  corps  had  been  dumped  dur- 
ing the  day,  and  apparently  this  portended  the  hot- 
test kind  of  a  fight ;  moreover,  it  was  said  Sheridan 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge.  Everybody 
knew  what  that  meant. 

"  We  ought  to  be  used  to  hot  corners  by  this 
time,"  said  the  grizzled  corporal,  in  comment,  "  but 
it's  the  deuce  to  go  into  'em  on  empty  stomachs. 
We've  been  on  half-rations  two  days." 

"  There'll  be  the  more  to  go  round  among  them 
that's  left,"  said  the  sergeant,  grimly,  and  turned  on 
his  heel. 

The  Irishman,  pulling  his  feet  with  difficulty  out 
of  the  ooze  into  which  they  had  settled,  suddenly 
left  his  place  and  walked  over  to  the  corporal,  lift- 
ing his  hand  in  a  sidelong,  clumsy  salute. 

"  Wud  ye  moind  tellin  me,  sur,  where  I'm  to 
sleep?"  he  asked,  saluting  again. 

The  corporal  looked  at  his  questioner,  spat  medi- 
tatively into  the  embers,  then  looked  again,  and 
answered,  briefly : 

"On  the  ground." 

Linsky  cast  a  glance  of  pained  bewilderment,  first 
down  at  the  mud  into  which  he  was  again  sinking, 
then  across  the  fire  into  the  black,  wind-swept 
night. 

"  God  forgive  me  for  a  fool,"  he  groaned  aloud, 
"  to  lave  a  counthry  where  even  the  pigs  have  straw 
to  drame  on."  ' 

"  Where  did  you  expect  to  sleep — in  a  balloon?" 
asked  the  corporal,  with  curt  sarcasm.  Then  the 
look  of  utter  hopelessness  on  the  other's  ugly  face 
prompted   him   to  add,  in  a  softer  tone :    "  You 


The  FatJie7'-  of  Co7npany  F.  15 

must  hunt  up  a  tent-mate  for  yourself — make  friends 
with  some  fellow  who'll  take  you  in." 

"  Sorra  a  wan'll  be  friends  wid  me,"  said  the 
despondent  recruit.  "  I'm  waitin'  yet,  the  furst 
dacent  wurrud  from  anny  of  'em." 

The  corporal's  face  showed  that  he  did  not 
specially  blame  them  for  their  exclusivness,  but  his 
words  were  kindly  enough. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  fix  you  out,"  he  said,  and  sent  a 
comprehensive  glance  round  the  group  which  still 
huddled  over  the  waning  fire,  on  the  other  side. 

"  Hughie,  here's  a  countryman  of  yours,"  he 
called  out  to  a  lean,  tall,  gray-bearded  private  who, 
seated  on  a  rail,  had  taken  off  his  wet  boots  and  was 
scraping  the  mud  from  them  with  a  bayonet;  "can 
you  take  him  in  ?" 

"  1  have  some  one  already,"  the  other  growled, 
not  even  troubling  to  lift  his  eyes  from  his  task. 

It  happened  that  this  was  a  lie,  and  that  the 
corporal  knew  it  to  be  one.  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  dallying  with  the  impulse  to  speak  sharply. 
Then,  reflecting  that  Hugh  O'Mahony  was  a  quarrel- 
some and  unsociable  creature  with  whom  a  dispute 
was  always  a  vexation  to  the  spirit,  he  decided  to 
say  nothing. 

How  curiously  inscrutable  a  thing  is  chance ! 
Upon  that  one  decision  turned  every  human  inter- 
est in  this  tale,  and  most  of  all,  the  destiny  of  the 
sulky  man  who  sat  scraping  his  boots.  The  Wheel  of 
Fortune,  in  this  little  moment  of  silence,  held  him 
poised  within  the  hair's  breadth  of  a  discovery  which 
would  have  altered  his  career  in  an  amazing  way, 
and  changed  the  story  of  a  dozen  lives.     But  the 


1 6  The  Rettim  of  The  0"Maho7iy. 


corporal  bit  his  lip  and  said  nothing.  O'Mahony 
bent  doggedly  over  his  work — and  the  wheel  rolled 
on. 

The  corporal's  eye,  roaming  about  the  circle,  fell 
upon  the  figure  of  a  man  who  had  just  approached 
the  fire  and  stood  in  the  full  glare  of  the  red  light, 
thrusting  one  foot  close  to  the  blaze,  while  he  bal- 
anced himself  on  the  other.  His  ragged  hair  and 
unkempt  beard  were  of  the  color  of  the  miry  clay 
at  his  feet.  His  shoulders,  rounded  at  best,  were 
unnaturally  drawn  forward  by  the  exertion  of  keep- 
ing his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the  while  he  maintained 
his  balance.  His  face,  of  which  snub  nose  and  grey 
eyes  alone  were  visible  in  the  frame  of  straggling 
hair  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  battered  forage- 
cap visor,  wore  a  pleased,  almost  merry,  look  in  the 
flickering,  ruddy  light.  He  was  humming  a  dro- 
ning sort  of  tune  to  himself  as  he  watched  the 
steam  rise  from  the  wet  leather. 

"  Zeke's  happy  to-night ;  that  means  fight  to- 
morrow, sure  as  God  made  little  fishes,"  said  the 
corporal  to  nobody  in  particular.  Then  he  lifted 
his  voice  : 

"  Have  3^ou  got  a  place  in  your  diggin's  for  a 
recruit,  Zeke — say  just  for  to-night  ?"  he  asked. 

Zeke  looked  up,  and  sauntered  forward  to  where 
they  stood,  hands  still  in  pockets. 

"Well — I  don't  know,"  he  drawled.  "Guess 
so — if  he  don't  snore  too  bad." 

He  glanced  Linsky  over  with  indolent  gravity. 
It  was  plain  that  he  didn't  think  much  of  him. 

•'Got  a  blanket?"  he  asked,  abruptly, 

"  1  have  that,"  the  Irishman  replied. 


The  Father  of  Company  F.  i  7 

"  Anything  to  drink  ?" 

Linsky  produced  from  his  jacket  pocket  a  flat, 
brown  bottle,  twin  brother  to  that  which  had  been 
passed  about  the  camp-fire  circle  earlier  in  the  even- 
ing, and  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"  They  called  it  whiskey,"  he  said,  in  apology ; 
"  an*  be  the  price  I  paid  fur  it,  it  moight  a'  been 
doimonds  dissolved  in  angel's  tears ;  but  the  furst 
«up  I  tuk  of  it,  faith,  I  thought  it  'ud  tear  th'  t'roat 
from  me  I" 

Zeke  had  already  linked  Linsky 's  arm  within  his 
own,  and  he  reached  forth  now  and  took  the  bottle. 

"  It's  p'zen  to  a  man  that  ain't  used  to  it,"  he 
said,  with  a  grave  wink  to  the  corporal.  "  Come 
along  with  me,  Irish  ;  mebbe  if  you  watch  me  close 
you  can  pick  up  points  about  gittin'  the  stuff  down 
without  injurin'  your  throat." 

And,  with  another  wink,  Zeke  led  his  new-found 
friend  awav  from  the  fire,  picking  his  steps  through 
the  soft  mud,  past  dozens  of  little  tents  propped  up 
with  rails  and  boughs,  walking  unconsciously  to- 
ward a  strange,  new,  dazzling  future. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   VIDETTE    POST. 

Zeke's  tent — a  low  and  lop-sided  patchwork  of 
old  blankets,  strips  of  wagon-covering  and  stray 
pieces  of  cast-off  clothing — was  pitched  on  the  high 
ground  nearest  to  the  regimental  sentry  line.  At 
its  back  one  could  discern,  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
camp-fires,  the  lowering  shadows  of  a  forest.  To 
the  west  a  broad  open  slope  descended  gradually, 
its  perspective  marked  to  the  vision  this  night  by 
red  points  of  light,  diminishing  in  size  as  they 
receded  toward  the  opposite  hill's  dead  wall  of 
blackness.  Upon  the  crown  of  this  wall,  nearly 
two  miles  distant,  Zeke's  sharp  eyes  now  discovered 
still  other  lights  which  had  not  been  visible  before. 

'*  Caught  sight  of  any  Rebs  yet  since  you  been 
here,  Irish  ?"  he  asked,  as  the  two  stood  halted 
before  his  tent. 

"  I  saw  some  prisoners  at  what  they  call  City 
Point,  th'  day  before  yesterday — the  most  starved 
and  miserable  divils  ever  I  laid  eyes  on.  That's 
what  I  thought  thin,  but.  1  knowbetther  now.  Sure 
they  were  princes  compared  wid  me  this  noight." 

*'  Well,  it's  dollars  to  doughnuts  them  are  their 
lights  over  yonder  on  the  ridge,"  said  Zeke. 
[i8] 


The    ]ldctlc  Post.  19 

"  You'll  see  enough  of  'em  to-morrow  to  last  a  life- 
time." 

Linksy  looked  with  interest  upon  the  row  of  dim 
sparks  which  now  crowned  the  whole  long  crest. 
He  had  brought  his  blanket,  knapsack  and  rifle 
from  the  stacks  outside  company  headquarters,  and 
stood  holding  them  as  he  gazed. 

"  Faith,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  they're  no  more 
desirous  of  seeing  me  than  I  am  thim,  there's  been 
a  dale  of  throuble  wasted  in  coming  so  far  for  both 
of  us." 

Zeke,  for  answer,  chuckled  audibly,  and  the  sound 
of  this  was  succeeded  by  a  low,  soft  gurgling  noise, 
as  he  lifted  the  flask  to  his  mouth  and  threw  back 
his  head.     Then,  after  a  satisfied  ''  A-h  !"  he  said  : 

"  Well,  we'd  better  be  turning  in  now,"  and  kicked 
aside  the  door-flap  of  his  tent. 

"  And  is  it  here  we're  to  sleep  ?"  asked  Linsky, 
making  out  with  difficulty  the  outlines  of  the  little 
hut-like  tent, 

"  I  guess  there  won't  be  much  sleep  about  it,  but 
this  is  our  shebang.  Wait  a  minute."  He  disap- 
peared momentarily  within  the  tent,  entering  it  on 
all-fours,  and  emerged  with  an  armful  of  sticks  and 
paper.  *'  Now  you  can  dump  your  things  inside 
there.  I'll  have  a  iire  out  here  in  the  jerk  of  a 
lamb's  tail." 

The  Irishman  crawled  in  in  turn,  and  presently, 
by  the  light  of  the  blaze  his  companion  had  started 
outside,  was  able  to  spread  out  his  blanket  in  some 
sort,  and  even  to  roll  himself  up  in  it,  without  tumbling 
the  whole  edifice  down.  There  was  a  scant  scatter- 
ing of  straw  upon  which  to  lie,  but  underneath  this 


20  TJie  Return  of  The  O'AIahony. 

he  could  feel  the  chill  of  the  damp  earth.  He  man- 
aged to  drag  his  knapsack  under  his  head  to  serve 
as  a  pillow,  and  then,  shivering,  resigned  himself  to 
fate. 

The  fire  at  his  feet  burned  so  briskly  that  soon  he 
began  to  be  pleasantly  conscious  of  its  warmth 
stealing  through  the  soles  of  his  thick,  wet  soles. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  take  off  me  boots,"  he  called  out. 
"  Me  feet  are  just  perished  wid  the  cold." 

"  No.  You  couldn't  get  'em  on  again,  p'r'aps, 
when  we're  called,  and  I  don't  want  any  such  foolish- 
'ness  as  that.  When  we  get  out,  it'll  have  to  be  at  the 
drop  of  the  hat — double  quick.  How  many  rounds  of 
cartridges  you  got  ?" 

"  This  bag  of  mine  they  gave  me  is  that  filled  wid 
'em  the  weight  of  it  would  tip  an  outside  car." 

"  Can  you  shoot?" 

"  I  don't  know  if  1  can.  I  haven't  tried  that  same 
yet." 

A  long  silence  ensued,  Zeke  squatting  on  a  cracker- 
box  beside  the  fire,  f^ask  in  hand,  Linsky  concentra- 
ting his  attention  upon  the  warmth  at  the  soles  of 
his  feet,  and  drowsily  mixing  up  the  Galtee  Moun- 
tains with  the  fire-crowned  hills  of  a  strange,  new 
world,  upon  one  of  which  he  lay.  Then  all  at  once 
he  was  conscious  that  Zeke  had  crept  into  the  tent, 
and  was  lying  curled  close  beside  him,  and  that  the 
fire  outside  had  sunk  to  a  mass  of  sparkless  embers. 
He  half  rose  from  his  recumbent  posture  before 
these  things  displaced  his  dreams ;  then,  as  he  sank 
back  again,  and  closed  his  eyes  to  settle  once  more 
into  sleep,  Zeke  spoke  : 

"  Don't  do  that  again !     You  got  to  lie  still  here, 


The   Vidette  Post.  21 

or  you'll  bust  the  hull  combination.  If  you  want  to 
turn  over,  tell  me,  and  we'll  flop  together — other- 
wise you'll  have  the  thing  down  on  our  heads." 

There  came  another  pause,  and  Linsky  almost 
believed  himselt  to  be  asleep  again.  But  Zeke  was 
wakeful. 

"Say,  Irish,"  he  began,  "that  country  of  yourn 
must  be  a  pretty  tough  place,  if  this  kind  ot  thing 
strikes  you  fellows  as  an  improvement  on  it." 

"  Sur,"  said  Linsky,  with  sleepy  dignity,  "  ther's 
no  other  counthry  on  earth  fit  to  buckle  Ireland's 
shoe's — no  offence  to  30U.'" 

"  Yes,  you  always  give  us  that ;  but  if  it's  so  fine  a 

place,  why  in don't  you  stay  there?     What   do 

you  all  pile  over  here  for  ?" 

"  I  came  to  America  on  business,"  replied  Linsky, 
stiffly. 

"  Business  of  luggin'  bricks  up  a  ladder  !" 

"  Sur,  I'm  a  solicitor's  dark." 

"  How  do  you  mean — '  Clark  ?'  Thought  your 
name  was  Linsky  ?" 

•'  It's  what  you  call  '  clurk  ' — a  lawyer's  clurk — 
and  I'll  be  a  lawyer  mesilf,  in  toime." 

"  That's  worse  still.  There's  seven  hundred  times 
as  many  lawyers  here  already  as  anybody  wants." 

"  I  had  no  intintion  of  stoppin'.  My  business  was 
to  foind  a  certain  man,  the  heir  to  a  great  estate  in 
Ireland,  and  thin  to  returrun ;  but  I  didn't  foind  my 
man — and — sure,  it's  plain  enough  I  didn't  returrun, 
ayether  ;  and  I'll  go  to  sleep  now,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Zeke  paid  no  attention  to  the  hint. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said.  "  Why  didn't  you  go  back, 
Irish?" 


22  The  Return  of  The   G Mahony, 

"  It's  aisy  enough,"  Linsky  replied,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Tin  long  weeks  was  I  scurryin'  from  wan  ind  of 
the  land  to  the  other,  lukkin'  for  this  invisible  divil 
of  a  Hugh  O'Mahony  " — Zeke  stretched  out  his  feet 
here  with  a  sudden  movement,  unnoted  by  the  otiier 
— "  makin'  inquiries  here,  foindin'  traces  there, 
gettin'  laughed  at  somewhere  else,  till  me  heart 
was  broke  entoirely.  *  He's  in  the  army,'  says  they. 
'  Whereabouts  ?'  says  I.  Here,  there,  everwhere 
they  sint  me  on  a  fool's  errand.  Plinty  of  places  1 
came  upon  where  he  had  been,  but  divil  a  wan 
where  he  was;  and  thin  I  gave  it  up  and  wint  to 
New  York  to  sail,  and  there  I  made  some  fri'nds, 
and  wint  out  wid  'em  and  the}'  spoke  fair,  and  I 
drank  wid  'em,  and,  faith,  whin  I  woke  I  was  a 
soldier,  wid  brass  buttons  on  me  and  a  gun;  and 
that's  the  truth  of  it — worse  luck!  And  nozv  I'll 
sleep !" 

"And  this  Hugh  What-d'ye-call-him — the  fellow 
you  was  huntin'  after — where  did  he  live  before  the 
war  ?" 

"  'Twas  up  in  New  York  State — a  place  they  call 
Tccumsy — he'd  been  a  shoemaker  there  for  years. 
I  have  here  among  me  papers  all  they  know  about 
him  and  his  family  there.  It  wan't  much,  but  it 
makes  his  identity  plain,  and  that's  the  great  thing." 

"  And  what  d'ye  reckon  has  become  of  him  ?" 

"  If  yc  ask  me  in  me  capacity  as  solicitor's  dark, 
I'd  say  that,  for  purposes  of  law,  he'd  be  aloive  till 
midsummer  day  next,  and  thin  doy  be  process  of 
statutory  neglict,  and  niver  know  it  as  long  as  he 
lives;  but  if  you  ask  me  proivate  opinion,  he's  as 
dead  as  a  mackerel ;  and,  if  he  isn't,  he  will  be  in 


The    Vidette  Post. 


good  toime,  and  divil  a  ha'porth  of  shoe-leather  will 
I  waste  more  on  him.  And  now  good-noight  to  ye, 
sur !" 

Linsky  fell  to  snoring  before  any  reply  came. 
Zeke  had  meant  to  tell  him  that  they  were  to  rise  at 
three  and  set  out  upon  a  venturesome  vidette-post 
expedition  together.  He  wondered  now  what  it 
was  that  had  prompted  him  to  select  this  raw  and 
undrilled  Irishman  as  his  comrade  in  the  enterprise 
which  lay  before  him.  Without  finding  an  answer, 
his  mind  wandered  drowsily  to  another  question — 
Ought  O'Mahony  to  be  told  of  the  search  for  him 
or  not?  That  vindictive  and  sullen  Hughie  should 
be  heir  to  anything  seemed  an  injustice  to  all  good 
fellows ;  but  heir  to  what  Linsky  called  a  great 
estate! — that  was  ridiculous!  What  would  an 
ignorant  cobbler  like  him  do  with  an  estate? 

Zeke  was  not  quite  clear  in  his  mind  as  to  what 
an  "  estate  "  was,  but  obviously  it  must  be  something 
much  too  good  for  O'Mahony.  And  why,  sure 
enough!  Only  a  fortnight  before,  while  they  were 
still  at  Fort  Davis,  this  O'Mahony  had  refused  to 
mend  his  boot  for  him,  even  though  his  frost-bitten 
toes  had  pushed  their  way  to  the  daylight  between 
the  sole  and  upper.  Zeke  could  feel  the  toes  ache 
perceptibly  as  he  thought  on  this  affront.  Sleepy 
as  he  was,  it  grew  apparent  to  him  that  O'Mahony 
would  probably  never  hear  of  that  inheritance ;  and 
then  he  went  oS  bodil}'  into  dream-land,  and  was  the 
heir  himself,  and  violently  resisted  O'Mahony's 
attempts  to  dispossess  him,  and — and  then  it  was 
three  o'clock,  and  the  sentry  was  rolling  him  to  and 
fro  on  the  ground  with  his  foot  to  wake  him. 


24  The  Return  of  The   O'Afahony. 

"Sh-h!  Keep  as  still  as  you  can,"  Zeke  admon- 
ished the  bewildered  Linsky,  when  he,  too,  had  been 
roused  to  consciousness.  "  We  mustn't  stir  up  the 
camp." 

"  Is  it  desertin'  3'e  are  ?"  asked  the  Irishman,  rub- 
bing his  eyes  and  sitting  upright. 

"Sh-h  !  you  fool — no  !  Feel  around  for  your  gun 
and  knapsack  and  cap,  and  bring  'em  out,"  whis- 
pered Zeke  from  the  door  of  the  tent. 

Linsky  obeyed  mechanically,  groping  in  the  utter 
darkness  for  what  seemed  to  him  an  age,  and  then 
crawling  awkwardly  forth.  As  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
he  could  iiardly  distinguish  his  companion  standing 
beside  him.  Only  faint,  dusky  pillars  of  smoke, 
reddish  at  the  base,  gray  above,  rising  like  slender- 
est palms  to  fade  in  the  obscurity  overhead,  showed 
where  the  fires  in  camp  had  been.  The  clouded 
sky  was  black  as  ink. 

"Fill  your  pockets  with  cartridges,"  he  heard 
Zeke  whisper.  "  We'll  prob'ly  have  to  scoot  for 
our  lives.  We  don't  want  no  extra  load  of  knap- 
sacks." 

It  strained  Linsky's  other  perceptions  even  more 
than  it  did  his  sight  to  follow  his  comrade  in  the 
tramp  which  now  began.  He  stumbled  over  roots 
and  bushes,  sank  knee-deep  in  swampy  holes,  ran 
full  tilt  into  trees  and  fences,  until  it  seemed  to  him 
they  must  have  traveled  miles,  and  he  could  hardly 
drag  one  foot  after  the  other.  The  first  shadowy 
glimmer  of  dawn  fell  upon  them  after  they  had  ac- 
complished a  short  but  difficult  descent  from  the 
ridge  and  stood  at  its  foot,  on  the  edge  of  a  tiny,  alder- 
fringed  brook.     The  Irishman  sat  down  on  a  fallen 


The    Vidctte  Post. 


log  for  a  minute  to  rest  ;  the  while  Zeke,  as  fresh 
and  cool  as  the  morning  itself,  glanced  critically 
about  hinj. 

"  Yes,  here  we  are,"  he  said  as  last.  "  We  can 
strike  through  here,  get  up  the  side  hill,  and  sneak 
across  by  the  hedge  into  the  house  afore  it's  square 
daylight.     Come  on,  and  no  noise  now!" 

Linsky  took  up  his  gun  and  followed  once  more 
in  the  other's  footsteps  as  well  as  might  be.  The 
growing  light  from  the  dull-gray  east  made  it  a 
simpler  matter  now  to  get  along,  but  he  still  stum- 
bled so  often,  that  Zeke  cast  warning  looks  backward 
upon  him  more  than  once.  At  last  they  I'eached  the 
top  of  the  low  hill  which  had  confronted  them. 

It  was  near  enough  to  daylight  for  Linsky  to  see, 
at  the  distance  of  an  eighth  of  a  mile,  a  small,  red 
farm-house,  flanked  by  a  larger  barn.  A  tolerably 
straight  line  of  thick  hedge  ran  from  close  by  where 
they  stood,  to  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  house. 
All  else  was  open  pasture  and  meadow  land. 

"  Now  bend  your  back,"  said  Zeke.  "  We've  got 
to  crawl  along  up  this  side  of  the  fence  till  we  git 
opposite  that  house,  and  then,  somehow  or  other, 
work  across  to  it  without  bein'  seen." 

"  Who  is  it  that  would  see  us?" 

"  Why,  you  blamed  fool,  them  woods  there" — 
pointing  to  a  long  strip  of  undergrowth  woodland 
beyond  the  house — "  are  as  thick  with  Johnnies  as 
a  dog  is  with  fleas." 

"  Thin  that  house  is  no  place  for  an}'^  dacent  man 
to  be  in,"  said  Linsky  ;  but  despite  this  conviction 
he  crouched  down  close  behind  Zeke  and  followed 
him  in  the  stealthy  advance  along  the   hedge.     It 


26  The  Rchirit  of  The  O Mahony. 

was  back-breakin^^  work,  but  Linsky  had  stalked 
partridges  behind  the  ditch- walls  of  his  native  land, 
and  was  able  to  keep  up  with  his  guide  without  los- 
ing breath. 

"  Faith,  it's  loike  walking  down  burrds,"  he  whis- 
pered ahead  ;  "  only  that  it's  two-legged  partridges 
we're  after  this  toime." 

"  How  many  legs  have  they  got  in  Ireland  ?"  Zeke 
muttered  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Arrah,  it's  milking-stools  I  had  in  moind," 
returned  Linsky,  readily,  with  a  smile. 

"  S'l-h  !     Don't  talk.     We're  close  now." 

Sure  enough,  the  low  roof  and  the  top  of  the  big 
square  chimney  of  stone  built  outside  the  red  clap- 
board end  of  the  farmhouse  were  visible  near  at 
hand,  across  the  hedge.  Zeke  bade  Linsky  sit 
down,  and  opening  the  big  blade  of  a  huge  jack- 
knife,  began  to  cut  a  hole  through  the  thorns. 
Before  this  aperture  had  grown  large  enough  to 
permit  the  passage  of  a  man's  body,  full  daylight 
came.  It  was  not  a  very  brilliant  affair,  this  full 
daylight,  for  the  morning  was  overcast  and  gloomy, 
and  the  woods  beyond  the  house,  distant  some  two 
hundred  yards,  were  half  lost  in  mist.  But  there 
was  light  enough  for  Linsky,  idly  peering  through 
the  bushes,  to  discern  a  grey-coated  sentry  pacing 
slowly  along  the  edge  of  the  woodland.  He 
nudged  Zeke,  and  indicated  the  discovery  by  a 
gesture. 

Zeke  nodded,  after  barely  lifting  his  eyes,  and 
then  pursued  his  whittling. 

*'  I  saw  him  when  we  first  come,"  he  said,  calml3^ 


The    Vidette  Post.  27 

"  And  is  it  through  this  hole  we're  goin'  out  to  be 
kilt?" 

"  You  ask  too  many  questions,  Irish,"  responded 
Zeke.  He  had  iinished  his  work  and  put  away  the 
knife.  He  rolled  over  now  to  a  half-recumbent  pos- 
ture, folded  his  hands  under  his  head,  and  asked  : 

"  How  much  bounty  did  you  git?" 

"  Is  it  me  ?  Faith,  I  was  merely  a  disbursing 
agent  in  the  thransaction.  They  gave  me  a  roll  of 
paper  notes,  they  said,  but  divil  a  wan  could  I  foind 
when  I  come  to  mesilf  and  found  mesilf  a  soldier. 
It's  thim  new  fri'nds  o'  moine  that  got  the  bounty." 

"  So  you  didn't  enlist  to  git  the  money  ?" 

"  Sorra  a  word  did  I  know  about  enlistin',  or 
bounty,  or  anything  else,  for  four-and-twenty  hours 
afther  the  mischief  was  done.  Is  it  money  that  'ud 
recompinse  a  man  for  sittin'  here  in  the  mud,  waitin* 
to  be  blown  to  bits  by  a  whole  plantation  full  of 
soldiers,  as  I  am  here,  God  help  me  ?  Is  it  money 
you  say  ?  Faith,  I've  enough  to  take  me  back  to 
Cork  twice  over.  What  more  do  1  want?  And  I 
offered  the  half  of  it  to  the  captain,  or  gineral,  or 
whatever  he  was,  to  lave  me  go,  when  I  found  what 
I'd  done  ;  but  he  wouldn't  hearken  to  me." 

Zeke  rolled  over  to  take  a  glance  through  the 
hedge. 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  that  fellow  you  were 
tryin'  to  find,"  he  said,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the 
distant  sentry.  "  What'll  happen  now  that  you 
haven't  found  him  ?" 

**  If  he  remains  unknown  until  midsummer-day 
next,  the  estate  goes  to  some  distant  cousins  who 
live  convanient  to  it." 


28  The  Return   of  The   G Mahony. 


"And  he  can't  touch  it  after  that,  s'posin'  he 
should  turn  up  ?" 

"The  law  of  adverse  possession  is  twinty  years, 
and  only  five  of  'em  have  passed.  No ;  he'd  have  a 
claim  these  fifteen  years  yet.  But  rest  aisy.  He'll 
never  be  heard  of." 

"  And  you  wrote  and  told  'em  in  Ireland  that  he 
couldn't  be  found  ?" 

"  That  I  did— or — Wait  now  !  What  I  wrote  was 
that  he  was  in  the  army,  and  1  was  afther  searching 
for  him  there.  Sure,  whin  1  got  to  New  York, 
what  with  the  fri'nds  and  the  drink  and — and  this 
foine  soldiering  of  moine,  I  niver  wrote  at  all.  It's 
God's  mercy  I  didn't  lose  me  papers  on  top  of  it 
all,  or  it  would  be  if  I  was  likely  ever  to  git  out  of 
this  aloive." 

Zeke  lay  silent  and  motionless  for  a  time,  watch- 
ing the  prospect  through  this  hole  in  the  hedge. 

"  Hungry,  Irish?"  he  asked  at  last,  with  laconic 
abruptness. 

"  I've  a  twist  on  me  like  the  County  Kerry  in  a 
famine  year." 

"  Well,  then,  double  yourself  up  and  follow  me 
when  I  give  the  word.  I'll  bet  there's  something  to 
eat  in  that  house.  Give  me  your  gun.  We'll  put 
them  through  first.  That's  it.  Now,  then,  when 
that  fellow's  on  t'other  side  of  the  house.     Now  r 

With  lizard-like  swiftness,  Zeke  made  his  way 
through  the  aperture,  and,  bending  almost  double, 
darted  across  the  wet  sward  toward  the  house. 

Linsky  followed  him,  doubting  not  that  the  adven- 
ture led  to  certain  death,  but  hoping  that  there 
would  be  breakfast  first. 


CHAPTER   III. 

linsky's  brief  military  career. 

Zeke.  though  gliding  over  the  slippery  ground 
with  all  the  speed  at  his  command,  had  kept  a  watch 
on  the  further  corner  of  the  house.  He  straight- 
ened himself  now  against  the  angle  of  the  projecting, 
weather-beaten  chimney,  and  drew  a  long  breath, 

"  He  didn't  see  us,"  he  whispered,  reassuringly 
to  Linsky,  who  had  also  drawn  up  as  flatly  as  possi- 
ble against  the  side  of  the  house. 

"  Glory  be  to  God !"  the  recruit  ejaculated. 

After  a  brief  breathing  spell,  Zeke  ventured  out 
a  few  feet,  and  looked  the  house  over.  There  was 
a  single  window  on  his  side,  opening  upon  the 
ground  floor.  Beckoning  to  Linsky  to  follow,  he 
stole  over  to  the  window,  and  standing  his  gun 
against  the  clapboards,  cautiously  tested  the  sash. 
It  moved,  and  Zeke  with  infinite  pains  lifted  it  to  the 
top,  and  stuck  his  knife  in  to  hold  it  up.  Then,  with 
a  bound,  he  raised  himself  on  his  arms,  and  crawled 
in  over  the  sill. 

It  was  at  this  moment,  as  Linsky  for  the  first  time 
stood  alone,  that  a  clamorous  outburst  of  artiller}'- 
firc  made  the   earth  quiver   under    his    feet.     The 

[29] 


30  The  Return  of  The   O'HIa/iony. 

crash  of  noises  reverberated  with  so  many  echoes 
from  hill  to  hill  that  he  had  no  notion  whence  they 
had  proceeded,  or  from  what  distance.  The  whole 
broad  valley  before  him,  with  its  sodden  meadows 
and  wet,  mist-wrapped  forests  showed  no  sign  of 
life  or  motion.  But  from  the  crest  of  the  ridge 
which  they  had  quitted  before  daybreak  there  rose 
now,  and  whitened  the  gray  of  the  overhanging 
clouds,  a  faint  film  of  smoke — while  suddenly  the  air 
above  him  was  filled  with  a  strange  confusion  of  unfa- 
miliar sounds,  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  hoarse 
screams  of  a  flock  of  giant  wild-fowl ;  and  then 
this  affrighting  babel  ceased  as  swiftly  as  it  had 
arisen,  and  he  heard  the  thud  and  swish  of  splintered 
tree-tops  and  trunks  falling  in  the  woodland  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  The  Irishman  reasoned  it  out 
that  they  were  firing  from  the  hill  he  had  left,  over 
at  the  hill  \\\>o\\  which  he  now  stood,  and  was  not 
comforted  by  the  discovery. 

While  he  stared  at  the  ascending  smoke  and 
listened  to  the  din  of  the  cannonade,  he  felt  himself 
sharply  poked  on  the  shoulder,  and  started  nervous- 
ly, turning  swiftly,  gun  in  hand.  It  was  Zeke,  who 
stood  at  the  window,  and  had  playfully  attracted 
his  attention  with  one  of  the  long  sides  of  bacon 
which  the  army  knew  as  "sow-bellies."  He  had 
secured  two  of  these,  which  he  now  handed  out  to 
Linsky  ;  then  came  a  ham  and  a  bag  of  meal;  and 
lastly,  a  twelve-quart  pan  of  sorghum  molasses. 
When  the  Irishman  had  lifted  down  tiic  Inst  of  these 
spoils,  Zeke  vaulted  lightly  out. 

"Guess  we'll  have  a  whack  at  the  ham,"  ho  said 
cheerfully.     "  It's  good  raw." 


Liuskys  Brief  Military   Career.  31 

The  two  gnawed  greedily  at  the  smoked  slices 
cut  from  the  thick  of  the  ham,  as  became  men  wiio 
had  been  on  short  rations.  Zeke  listened  to  the 
firing,  and  was  visibly  interested  in  noting  all  that 
was  to  be  seen  and  guessed  of  its  effects  and  purpose, 
meanwhile,  but  the  ham  was  an  effectual  bar  to 
conversation. 

Suddenly  the  men  paused,  their  mouths  full,  their 
senses  alert.  The  sound  of  voices  rose  distinct- 
ly, and  close  by,  from  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
Zeke  took  up  his  gun,  cocked  it,  and  crept  noise- 
lessly forward  to  the  corner.  After  a  moment's 
attentive  listening  here,  and  one  swift,  cautious 
peep,  he  tiptoed  back  again. 

"  Take  half  the  things,"  he  w^hispered,  pointing  to 
the  provisions,  "  and  we'll  get  back  again  to  the 
fence.  There's  too  many  of  'em  for  us  to  tr)^  and 
hold  the  house.     They'd  burn  us  alive  in  there  !" 

The  pan  of  sorghum  fell  to  Linsky's  care,  and 
Zeke,  with  both  guns  and  all  the  rest  in  some  myste- 
rious manner  bestowed  about  him,  made  his  way, 
crouching  and  with  long  strides,  toward  the  hedge. 
He  got  through  the  hole  undiscovered,  dragging 
his  burden  after  him.  Then  he  took  the  pan  over 
the  hedge,  while  Linsky  should  in  turn  crawl 
through.  But  the  burlier  Irishman  caught  in  the 
thorns,  slipped,  and  clutched  Zeke's  arm,  with  the 
result  that  the  whole  contents  of  the  pan  were 
emptied  upon  Linsky's  head. 

Then  Zeke  did  an  unwise  thing.  He  cast  a  single 
glance  at  the  spectacle  his  comrade  presented — 
with  the  thick,  dark  molasses  covering  his  cap  like 
an   oilskin,   soaking    into    his    hair,    and    streaming 


32  The  Rctiuni  of   The  O'Mahony. 

down  his  bewildei-cd  face  in  streaks  like  an  Indian's 
war-paint — and  then  burst  forth  in  a  resounding 
peal  of  laughter. 

On  the  instant  two  men  in  gray,  with  battered 
slouch  hats  and  guns,  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  looking  eagerly  up  and  down  the  hedge  for 
some  sign  of  a  hostile  presence.  Zeke  had  dropped 
to  his  knees  in  time  to  prevent  discovery.  It  seemed 
to  be  with  a  part  of  the  same  swift  movement  that 
he  lifted  his  gun,  sighted  it  as  it  ran  through  the 
thorns,  and  fired.  While  the  smoke  still  curled  among 
the  branches  and  spiked  twigs,  he  had  snatched 
up  Linsky's  gun  and  fire  a  second  shot.  The  two 
men  in  gray  lay  sprawling  and  clutching  at  the  wet 
grass,  one  on  top  of  the  other. 

"  Quick,  Irish  !  We  must  make  a  break  !"  Zeke 
hissed  at  Linsky.     "  Grab  what  you  can  and  run!" 

Linsky,  his  eyes  and  mouth  full  of  molasses,  and 
understanding  nothing  at  all  of  what  had  happened, 
found  himself  a  moment  later  careering  blindly  and 
in  hot  haste  down  the  open  slope,  the  ham  and  the 
uag  of  meal  under  one  arm,  his  gun  in  the  other 
hand.  A  dozen  minie-bullets  sang  through  the 
damp  air  about  him  as  he  tore  along  after  Zeke, 
and  he  heard  vague  volleys  of  cheering  arise  from 
the  meadow  to  his  right;  but  neither  stopped  his 
course. 

It  was  barely  three  minutes — though  to  Linsky, 
at  least,  it  seemed  an  interminable  while — before  the 
two  came  to  a  halt  by  a  clump  of  trees  on  the  edge 
of  the  ravine.  In  the  shelter  of  these  broad  hem- 
lock trunks  they  stood  still,  panting  for  breath. 
Then  Zeke  looked  at  Linsky  again,  and  roared  with 


Linsky's  Brief  Military   Career.  33 

laughter  till  he  choked  and  went  into  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing. 

The  Irishman  had  thrown  down  his  provisions 
and  gun,  and  seated  himself  on  the  roots  of  his  tree. 
He  ruefully  combed  the  sticky  fiuid  from  his  hair 
and  stubble  beard  with  his  fingers  now,  and  strove 
to  clean  his  face  on  his  sleeve.  Between  the  native 
temptation  to  join  in  the  other's  merriment  and  the 
strain  of  the  last  few  minutes'  deadly  peril,  he  could 
only  blink  at  Zeke,  and  gasp  for  breath. 

"  Tight  squeak — eh,  Irish  .?"  said  Zeke  at  last, 
between  dying-away  chuckles. 

"  And  tell  me,  now,"  Linsky  began,  still  panting 
heavily,  his  besmeared  face  red  with  the  heat  of  the 
chase,  "  fwat  the  divil  were  we  doin'  up  there,  anny- 
way  ?  No  Linsky  or  Lynch — 'tis  the  same  name — 
was  ever  called  coward  yet — but  goin'  out  and 
defo3nn'  whole  armies  single-handed  is  no  fit  worrk 
for  solicitors'  clarks.  Spacheless  and  sinseless 
though  I  was  with  the  dhrink,  sure,  if  they  told  me 
I  was  to  putt  down  the  Rebellion  be  meself,  I'd  a' 
had  the  wit  to  decloine." 

"  That  was  a  vidette  post  we  were  on,"  explained 
Zeke. 

"  There's  a  shorter  name  for  it — God  save  us  both 
from  goin'  there.  But  fwat  was  the  intintion? 
'Tis  that  that  bothers  me  entoirely," 
'  "  Look  there  !"  was  Zeke's  response.  He  waved 
his  hand  comprehensively  over  the  field  they  had 
just  quitted,  and  the  Irishman  rose  to  his  feet  and 
stepped  aside  from  his  tree  to  see. 

The  little  red  farm-house  was  half  hidden  in  a  vail 
of  smoke.     Dim  shadows  of  men  could  be  seen  flit- 


34  The  Return   of  The   O'Mahony. 

ting  about  its  sides,  and  from  these  shadows  shot 
forth  tongues  of  momentary  flame.  The  upper  end 
of  the  meadow  was  covered  thick  with  smoke,  and 
through  this  were  visible  dark  masses  of  men  and 
the  same  spark-like  flashing  of  fiery  streaks.  Along 
the  line  of  the  hedge,  closer  to  the  house,  still 
another  wall  of  smoke  arose,  and  Linsky  could  dis- 
cern a  fringe  of  blue-coated  men  lying  flat  under  the 
cover  of  the  thorn-bushes,  whom  he  guessed  to  be 
sharp-shooters. 

"  That's  what  we  went  up  there  for — to  start  that 
thing  a-goin',''  said  Zeke,  not  without  pride.  "  See 
the  guide — that  little  flag  there  by  the  bushes  ? 
That's  our  regiment.  They  was  comin'  up  as  we 
skedaddled  out.  Didn't  yeh  hear 'em  cheer?  They 
was  cheerin'  for  us,  Irish — that  is,  some  for  us  and  a 
good  deal  for  the  sow-bellies  and  ham," 

No  answer  came,  and  Zeke  stood  for  a  moment 
longer,  taking  in  with  his  practiced  gaze  the  details 
of  the  fight  that  was  raging  before  him.  Half-spent 
bullets  were  singing  all  about  him,  but  he  seemed  to 
give  them  no  more  thought  than  in  his  old  Adiron- 
dack home  he  had  wasted  on  mosquitoes.  The 
din  and  deafening  rattle  of  this  musketry  war  had 
kindled  a  sparkle  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"  There  they  go,  Irish  !  Gad  !  we've  got  'em  on 
the  run  !  We  kin  scoot  across  now  and  jine  our 
men." 

Still  no  answer.  Zeke  turned,  and,  to  his  amaze- 
ment, saw  no  Linsky  at  his  side.  Puzzled,  he  looked 
vaguely  about  among  the  trees  for  an  instant.  Then 
his  wandering  glance  fell,  and  the  gleam  of  battle 
died  out  of  his  eyes  as  he  saw  the  Irishman  lying 


Linsky's  Brief  Military  Career.  35 

prone  at  his  very  feet,  his  face  flat  in  the  wet  moss 
and  rotting  leaves,  an  arm  and  leg  bent  under  the 
prostrate  body.  So  wrapt  had  Zeke's  senses  been 
in  the  noisy  struggle  outside,  he  had  not  heard  his 
comrade's  fall. 

The  veteran  knelt,  and  gently  turned  Linsky  over 
on  his  back.  A  wandering  ball  had  struck  him  in 
the  throat.  The  lips  were  alread}^  colorless,  and 
from  their  corners  a  thin  line  of  bright  blood  had 
oozed  to  mingle  grotesquely  with  the  molasses  on 
the  unshaven  jaw.  To  Zeke's  skilled  glance  it  was 
apparent  that  the  man  was  mortally  wounded — per- 
haps already  dead,  for  no  trace  of  pulse  or  heart- 
beat could  be  found.  He  softly  closed  the  Irish- 
man's eyes,  and  put  the  sorghum-stained  cap  over 
his  face. 

Zeke  rose  and  looked  forth  again  upon  the  scene 
of  battle.  His  regiment  had  crossed  the  fence  and 
gained  possession  of  the  farm-house,  from  which 
they  were  firing  into  the  woods  beyond.  Further 
to  the  left,  through  the  mist  of  smoke  which  hung 
upon  the  meadow,  he  could  see  that  large  masses  of 
troops  in  blue  were  being  pushed  forward.  He 
thought  he  would  go  and  join  his  company.  He 
would  tell  the  fellows  how  well  Linsky  had  behaved. 
Perhaps,  after  the  fight  was  all  over,  he  would  lick 
Hugh  O'Mahony  for  having  spoken  so  churlishly  to 
him. 

He  turned  at  this  and  looked  dou^n  again  upon 
the  insensible  Linsky. 

"  Well,  Irish,  you  had  sand  in  3'our  gizzard,  any- 
way," he  said,  aloud.  "I'll  whale  the  head  off  'm 
O'Mahony,  jest  on  your  account." 


36  The  Return  of  The  O' Mahony. 

Then,  musing  upon  some  new  ideas  which  these 
words  seem  to  have  suggested,  he  knelt  once  more, 
and,  unbuttoning  Linsky's  jacket,  felt  through  his 
pockets. 

He  drew  forth  a  leather  wallet  and  a  long 
linen-lined  envelope  containing  many  papers.  The 
wallet  had  in  it  a  comfortable  looking  roll  of  green, 
backs,  but  Zeke's  attention  was  bestowed  rather 
upon  the  papers. 

"  So  these  would  give  O'Mahony  an  estate,  ch  ?" 
he  pondered,  half  aloud,  turning  them  over.  "  It 
'ud  be  a  tolerable  good  bet  that  he  never  lays  eyes 
on  'em.  We'll  fix  that  right  now,  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents." 

He  began  to  kick  about  in  the  leaves,  as  he  rose  a 
second  time,  thinking  hard  upon  the  problem  of  what 
to  do  with  the  papers.  He  had  no  matches.  He 
might  cut  down  a  cartridge,  and  get  a  fire  b}^  per- 
cussion— but  that  would  take  time.  So,  for  that 
matter,  would  digging  a  hole  to  bury  the  papers. 

All  at  once  his  abstracted  face  lost  its  lines  of 
labor,  and  briglrdened  radiantly.  He  thrust  wallet 
and  envelope  into  his  own  pocket,  and  smilingly 
stepped  forward  once  more  to  see  what  the  field  of 
battle  was  like.  The  farm-house  had  become  the 
headquarters  of  a  general  and  his  staff,  and  the  noise 
of  fighting  had  passed  away  to  the  furthest  confines 
of  the  woods. 

"  This  darned  old  compaign  won't  last  up'ard  of 
another  week,"  he  said,  in  satisfied  reverie.  "  I 
reckon  I've  done  my  share  in  it,  and  somethin'  to 
lap  over  on  the  next.  Nobody  'II  be  a  cent  the 
Wuss  off  if  I  turn  up  missin'  now," 


LijLskys  Brief*  Military   Career.  2>7 

Gathering  up  the  provisions  and  his  gun,  Zeke 
turned  abruptly,  and  made  his  way  down  the  steep 
side-hill  into  the  forest,  each  long  stride  bearing  him 
(urther  from  Company  F's  headquarters. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   O'MAHONY   on   ERIN'S   SOIL. 

It  became  known  among  the  passengers  on  the 
Moldavian,  an  hour  or  so  before  bedtime  on  Sunday 
evening,  April  23,  1865,  that  the  lights  to  be  seen 
in  the  larboard  distance  were  really  on  the  Irish 
coast.  The  intelligence  ran  swiftly  through  all 
quarters  of  the  vessel.  Its  truth  could  not  be  doubted  ; 
the  man  on  the  bridge  said  that  it  truly  was  Ireland  ; 
and  if  he  had  not  said  so,  the  ship's  barber  had. 

Excitement  over  the  news  reached  its  higi;!est 
point  in  the  steerage,  two-thirds  of  the  inmates  of 
which  hung  now  lovingly  upon  the  port  rail  of  the 
forward  deck,  tc  gaze  with  eager  e3^es  at  the  far-off 
points  of  radiance  glowing  through  the  soft  northern 
spring  night. 

Farther  down  the  rail,  from  the  obscurity  of  the 
jostling  throng,  a  stout  male  voice  sent  up  the  open- 
ing bars  of  the  dear  familiar  song,  ''  The  Cove  of 
Cork."  The  ballad  trembled  upon  the  air  as  it  pro- 
gressed, then  broke  into  something  like  sobs,  and 
ceased. 

[38J 


The  O Mahony   on  Eriiis  Soil.  39 

"Ah,  Barney,"  a  sympathetic  voice  cried  out, 
"'tis  no  longer  the  Cove;  'tis  Queenstown  they're 
after  calling  it  now.  Small  wandher  the  song  won't 
listen  to  itself  be  sung  !" 

"  But  they  haven't  taken  the  Cove  away — God 
bless  it !"  the  other  rejoined,  bitterly.  "  'Tis  there, 
beyant  the  lights,  waitin'  for  its  honest  name  to 
come  back  to  it  when — when  things  are  set  right 
once  more." 

"Is  it  the  Cove  you  think  you  see  yonder?" 
queried  another,  captiously.  "  Thim's  the  Fastnet 
and  Cape  Clear  lights.  We're  f.fty  miles  and  more 
from  Cork." 

"  Thin  if  'twas  daylight,"  croaked  an  old  man  be- 
tween coughs,  "  we'd  be  in  sight  of  The  O'Ma- 
hony's  castles,  or  what  bloody  Cromwell  left  of 
them." 

"  It's  mad  ye  are,  Martin,"  remonstrated  a  female 
voice.  "  The're  laygues  beyant  on  Dunmanus  Bay. 
Wasn't  I  born  mesilf  at  Durrus?" 

"  The  O'Mahony  of  Murrisk  is  on  board,"  whis- 
pered some  one  else,  "returnin'  to  his  estates.  I  had 
it  this  day  from  the  cook's  helper.  The  quantity  of 
mate  that  same  0'Mahon3^'s  been  'atin' !  An'  dhrink, 
is  it?  Faith,  there's  no  English  nobleman  could 
touch  him  !" 


On  the  saloon  deck,  aft,  the  interest  excited  by  these 
distant  lights  was  less  volubly  eager,  but  it  had  suf- 
ficed to  break  up  the  card-games  in  the  smoking- 
room,  and  even  to  tempt  some  malingering  passen- 
gers from  the  cabins  below.  Such  talk  as  passed 
among  the  group  lounging  along  the  rail,  here  in  the 


40  The  Return  of  The  O MaJiony. 

politer  quarter,  bore,  for  the  most  part,  upon  the 
record  of  the  Moldavian  on  this  and  past  voyages,  as 
contrasted  with  the  achievements  of  other  steam- 
ships. No  one  confessed  to  reverential  sensations 
in  looking  at  the  lights,  and  no  one  lamented  the 
change  of  name  which  sixteen  years  before,  had  be- 
fallen the  Cove  of  Cork;  but  there  was  the  liveliest 
speculation  upon  the  probabilities  of  the  Bahama, 
which  had  sailed  from  New  York  the  same  day,  hav- 
ing beaten  them  into  the  south  harbor  of  Cape  Clear, 
where,  in  those  exciting  war  times,  before  the  cable 
was  laid,  every  ocean  steamer  halted  long  enough 
to  hurl  overboard  its  rubber-encased  budget  of 
American  news,  to  be  scuffled  for  in  the  swell  by 
the  rival  oarsmen  of  the  cape,  and  borne  by  the  suc- 
cessful boat  to  the  island,  where  relays  of  telegraph 
clerks  then  waited  day  and  night  to  serve  Europe 
with  tidings  of  the  republic's  fight  for  life. 

This  concentration  of  thought  upon  steamer  runs 
and  records,  to  the  exclusion  of  interest  in  mere 
Europe,  has  descended  like  a  mantle  upon  the  first- 
cabin  passengers  of  our  own  later  generation.  But 
the  voyagers  in  the  Moldavian  had  a  peculiar  war- 
rant for  their  concern.  They  had  left  America  on 
Saturday,  April  15,  bearing  with  them  the  terrible 
news  of  Lincoln's  assassination  in  Ford's  Theatre, 
the  previous  evening,  and  it  meant  life-long  dis- 
tinction— in  one's  own  eyes  at  least — to  be  the  first 
to  deliver  these  tidings  to  an  astounded  Old  World. 
Eight  days'  musing  on  this  chance  of  greatness  had 
brought  them  to  a  point  where  they  were  prepared 
to  learn  with  equanimity  that  the  rival  Bahama  had 
struck  a  rock  outside,  somewhere.      One  of  their 


The  O Mahony  on  Erins  Soil.  41 

number,  a  little  Jew  diamond  merchant,  now  made 
himself  quite  popular  by  relating  his  personal  recol- 
lections of  the  calamity  which  befel  her  sister  ship, 
the  Aiiglia,  eighteen  months  ago,  when  she  ran  upon 
Blackrock  in  Galway  harbor. 

One  of  these  first-cabin  passengers,  standing  for  a 
time  irresolutely  upon  the  outskirts  of  this  gossip- 
ing group,  turned  abiuptly  when  the  under-sized 
Hebrew  addressed  a  part  of  his  narrative  to  him, 
and  walked  off  alone  into  the  shadows  of  the  stern. 
He  went  to  the  very  end,  and  leaned  over  the  taff- 
rail,  looking  down  upon  the  boiling,  phosphorescent 
foam  of  the  vessel's  wake.  He  did  not  care  a  but- 
ton about  being  able  to  tell  Europe  of  the  murder 
of  Lincoln  and  Seward — for  when  they  left  the  sec- 
retary was  supposed,  also,  to  have  been  mortally 
wounded.  His  anxieties  were  of  a  wholly  different 
sort. 

He,  The  O'Mahony  of  Muirisc,  was  plainly  but 
warmly  clad,  with  a  new,  shaggy  black  overcoat 
buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  a  black  slouch  hat 
drawn  over  his  eyes.  His  face  was  clean  sliaven, 
and  remarkably  free  from  lines  of  care  and  age 
about  the  mouth  and  nostrils,  though  the  eyes  were 
set  in  wrinkles.  The  upper  part  of  the  face  was 
darker  and  more  weather-beaten,  too,  than  the  lower, 
from  which  a  shrewd  observer  might  have  guessed 
that  until  very  recently  he  had  always  worn  a  beard. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  shrewd  observers  on 
board  the  Moldavian  among  its  cabin  passengers — 
men  of  obvious  Irish  nationality,  whose  manner 
with  one  another  had  a  certain  effect  of  furtiveness, 
^nd   who  were  described  on   the  ship's  list  by  dis- 


42  The  Retmni  of  The  O' Mahony. 

tinctively  English  names,  like  Potter,  Cooper  and 
Smith;  and  they  had  watched  the  O'Mahony  of 
Muirisc  very  closely  during  the  whole  voyage,  but 
none  of  them  had  had  doubts  about  the  beard, 
much  less  about  the  man's  identity.  In  truth,  they 
looked  from  day  to  day  for  him  to  give  some  sign, 
be  it  never  so  slight,  that  his  errand  to  Ireland  was 
a  political  one.  They  were  all  Fenians — among  the 
advance  guard  of  that  host  of  Irishmen  who  return- 
ed from  exile  at  the  close  of  the  Amercian  War — 
and  they  took  it  for  granted  that  the  solitary  and 
silent  O'Mahony  was  a  member  of  the  Brotherhood. 
The  more  taciturn  he  grew,  the  more  he  held  aloof, 
the  firmer  became  their  conviction  that  his  rank  in 
the  society  was  exalted  and  his  mission  important. 
The  very  fact  that  he  would  not  be  drawn  into  con- 
versation and  avoided  their  company  was  proof 
conclusive.  They  left  him  alone,  but  watched  him 
with  lynx-like  scrutiny. 

The  O'Mahony  had  been  conscious  of  this  cease- 
less observation,  and  he  mused  upon  it  now  as  he 
watched  the  white  whirl  of  churned  waters  below. 
The  time  was  close  at  hand  when  he  should  know 
whether  it  had  meant  anything  or  not ;  there  was  com- 
fort in  that,  at  all  events.  He  was  less  a  coward 
than  any  other  man  he  knew%  but,  all  the  same,  this 
unending  espionage  had  worn  upon  his  nerve. 
Doubtless,  that  was  in  part  because  sea-voyaging 
was  a  novelty  to  him.  He  had  not  been  ill  for  a 
moment.  In  fact,  he  could  not  remember  to  have 
ever  eaten  and  drunk  more  in  any  eight  days  of  his 
life.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  confounded  watch- 
fulness of  the  Irishmen,  he  would  have  enjoyed  the 


The   O Mahouy  on  Erins  Soil.  43 

whole  experience  immensely.  But  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  all  in  collusion — "'  in  cahoots,"  he 
phrased  it  in  his  mind — and  had  a  common  interest 
in  noting  all  his  movements.  What  could  it  mean  } 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  The  O'Mahony  had  never 
so  much  as  heard  of  the  Fenian  Brotherhood. 

He  rose  from  his  lounging  meditation  presentlv, 
and  sauntered  forward  again  along  the  port  deck. 
The  lights  from  the  coast  were  growing  more 
distinct  in  the  distance,  and,  as  he  paused  to  look, 
he  fancied  he  could  discern  a  dark  line  of  shore 
below  them. 

"  1  suppose  your  ancistral  estates  are  lyin'  further 
west,  sir,"  spoke  a  voice  at  his  side.  The  O'Mahony 
cast  a  swift  half-glance  around,  and  recognized  one 
of  the  suspected  spies. 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal  west,"  he  growled,  curtly. 

The  other  took  no  offense. 

"  Sure,"  he  went  on,  pleasantly,  "  the  O'Mahonys 
and  the  O'DriscoUs,  not  to  mintion  the  INIcCarthys, 
chased  each  other  around  that  counthry  yonder  at 
such  a  divil  of  a  pace  it's  hard  tellin'  now  which 
belonged  to  who." 

"  Yes,  we  did  hustle  round  considerable,"  assented 
The  O'Mahony,  with  frigidity. 

"  You're  manny  years  away  from  Ireland,  sir  ?" 
pursued  the  man. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  I  notice  you  say  '  yes  '  and  '  no.'  It  takes  a  long 
absence  to  tache  an  Irishman  that." 

"  I've  been  away  nearly  all  my  life,"  said  The  O'Ma- 
hony, sharpl;^ — "  ever  since  1  was  a  little  boj'  ;"  and 


44  The  Rehcrn  of  The   O Mahony. 

turning  on  his   heel,  he    walked  to  the  companion- 
way  and  disappeared  down  the  stairs. 

"  Faith,  I'm  bettin'  it's  the  gineral  himself  !"  said 
the  other,  looking  after  him. 


To  have  one's  waking  vision  greeted,  on  a  soft, 
warm  April  morning,  by  the  sight  of  the  Head  of 
Kinsale  in  the  sunlight — with  the  dark  rocks  capped 
in  tenderest  verdure  and  washed  below  by  milk- 
white  breakers  ;  with  the  smooth  water  mirroring 
the  blue  of  the  sky  upon  its  bosom,  yet  revealing  as 
well  the  marbled  greens  of  its  own  crystalline 
depths;  with  the  balmy  scents  of  fresh  blossoms 
meeting  and  mingling  in  the  languorous  air  of  the 
Gulf  Stream's  bringing — can  there  be  a  fairer  finish 
to  any  voyage  over  the  waters  of  the  whole  terres- 
trial ball  !" 

The  O'Mahony  had  been  up  on  deck  before  any 
of  his  fellow-passengers,  scanning  the  novel  details 
of  the  scene  before  him.  The  vessel  barely  kept 
itself  in  motion  through  the  calm  waters.  The  soft 
land  breeze  just  availed  to  turn  the  black  column  of 
smoke  rising  from  the  funnel  into  a  sort  of  carbon- 
iferous leaning  tower.  The  pilot  had  been  taken  on 
the  previous  evening.  They  waited  now  for  the  tug, 
which  could  be  seen  passing  Roche's  Point  with  a 
prodigious  spluttering  and  splashing  of  side-paddles. 
Before  its  arrival,  the  Moldavian  lay  at  rest  within 
full  view  of  the  wonderful  harbor — her  deck 
thronged  with  passengers  dressed  now  in  fine  shore 
apparel  and  bearing  bags  and  rugs,  who  bade  each 
other  good-bye  with  an  enthusiasm   which  nobody 


The   G Mahony  on  Ei'ins  Soil.  45 

believed  in,  and  edged  along-  as  near  as  possible 
where  the  gang-plank  would  be. 

The  O'Mahony  walked  alone  down  the  plank, 
rebuffing  the  porters  who  sought  to  relieve  him  of 
his  heavy  bags.  He  stood  alone  at  the  prow  of  the 
tug,  as  it  waddled  and  puffed  on  its  rolling  way 
back  again,  watching  the  superb  amphitheatre  of 
terraced  stone  houses,  walls,  groves  and  gardens 
toward  which  he  had  vo3'aged  these  nine  long  days, 
with  an  anxious,  almost  gloomy  face.  The  Fenians, 
still  closely  observing  him,  grew  nervous  with  fear 
that  this  depression  forboded  a  discover}^  of  contra- 
brand  arms  in  his  baggage. 

But  no  scandal  arose.  The  custom  officers 
searched  fruitlessly  through  the  long  platforms 
covered  with  luggage,  with  a  half  perfunctory  and 
wholly  wdiimsical  air,  as  if  they  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  revolvers  they  pretended  to  be  looking  for 
were  really  in  the  pockets  of  the  passengers.  Then 
other  good-byes,  distinctly  less  enthusiastic,  were 
exchanged,  and  the  last  bonds  of  comradeship  which 
life  on  the  Moldavian  had  enforced  snapped  lightly 
as  the  gates  were  opened. 

Everybody  else  seemed  to  know  where  to  go. 
The  O'Mahony  stood  for  so  long  a  time  just  outside 
the  gates,  with  his  two  big  valises  at  his  feet  and 
helpless  hesitation  written  all  over  his  face,  that 
even  some  of  the  swarm  of  beggars  surrounding  him 
could  not  wait  any  longer,  and  went  away  giving 
him  up.  To  the  importunities  of  the  others,  who 
buzzed  about  him  like  blue-bottles  on  a  sunny  win- 
dow-pane, he  paid  no  heed  ;  but  he  finally  beckoned 
to  the  driver  of  the  solitary  remaining  outside  car, 


46  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

who  had  been  flicking  his  broker,  whip  invitingly  at 
him,  and  who  now  turned  his  vehicle  abruptly  round 
and  drove  it,  with  wild  shouts  of  factitious  warning, 
straight  through  the  group  of  mendicants,  overbear- 
ing their  loud  cries  of  remonstrance  with  his  superior 
voice,  and  cracking  his  whip  like  mad.  He  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  bags  with  the  air  of  a  lord  mayor's 
coachman,  and  took  off  his  shapeless  hat  in  saluta- 
tion. 

"  1  want  to  go  to  the  law  office  of  White  &  Car- 
mod}^"  The  O'Mahony  said,  brusquely. 

"  Right,  your  honor,"  the  carman  answered,  dis- 
mounting and  lifting  the  luggage  to  the  well  of  the 
car,  and  then  officiously  helping  his  patron  to  mount 
to  his  sidelong  seat.  He  sprang  up  on  the  other 
side,  screamed  "  Now  thin,  Maggie  !"  to  his  poor 
old  horse,  flipped  his  whip  derisively  at  the  beggars, 
and  started  off  at  a  little  dog-trot,  clucking  loudi}-  as 
he  went. 

He  drove  through  all  the  long  ascending  streets  of 
Queenstown  at  this  shambling  pace,  traversing  each 
time  the  whole  length  of  the  town,  until  finally  they 
gained  the  terraced  pleasure-road  at  the  top.  Here 
the  driver  drew  rein,  and  waved  his  whip  to  indicate 
the  splendid  scope  of  the  view  below — the  gray 
roof  of  the  houses  embowered  in  trees,  the  river's 
crowded  shipping,  the  castellated  shore  opposite, 
the  broad,  island-dotted  harbor  be3^ond. 

"  L'uk  there,  now !"  he  said,  proudly.  "  Have 
yez  annything  like  that  in  Ameriky  ?" 

The  O'Mahon)'^  cast  only  an  indifferent  glance 
upon  the  prospect. 


The  GMahony  on  Eriiis  Soil.  47 

"Yes — but  where's  White  &  Carmody's  office?" 
he  asked.     "  That's  what  /  want," 

"  Right,  your  honor,''  was  the  reply  ;  and  with 
renewed  chicl-cing  and  cracking  of  the  dismantled 
whip,  the  journey  was  resumed.  That  is  to  say, 
they  wound  their  way  back  again  down  the  hill, 
through  all  the  streets,  until  at  last  the  car  stopped 
in  front  of  the  Queen's  Hotel. 

"  Is  it  thrue  what  they  tell  me,  sir,  that  the 
Prisidint  is  murdhered  ?"  the  jarvey  asked,  as  they 
came  to  a  halt. 

"  Yes — but  where  the  devil  is  that  law-office  ?" 

"  Sure,  3'Our  honor,  there's  no  such  names  here 
at  all,"  the  carman  replied,  pleasantly.  "  Here's  the 
hotel  where  gintleman  stop,  an'  I've  shown  3-e  the 
view  from  the  top,  an'  it's  plased  1  am  ye  had  such 
a  clear  day  for  it — and  wud  3'e  like  to  see  Smith- 
Barry's  place,  after  lunch  ?" 

The  stranger  turned  round  on  his  seat  to  the 
better  comment  upon  this  amazing  impudence, 
beginning  a  question  harsh  of  purpose  and  profane 
in  form. 

Then  the  spectacle  of  the  ragged  driver's  placidly 
amiable  face  and  roguish  eye ;  of  the  funny  old 
horse,  like  nothing  so  much  in  all  the  world  as  an 
ancient  hair-trunk  with  legs  at  the  corners,  3'et 
which  was  driven  with  the  noise  and  ostentation  of 
a  six-horse  team  ;  of  the  harness  tied  up  with  ropes  ; 
the  tumble-down  car ;  the  broken  whip  ;  the  beg- 
gars— all  this,  by  a  happ3^  chance,  suddenl3^  struck 
The  0'Mahon3^  in  a  humorous  light.  Even  as  his 
angered  words  were  on  the  air  he  smiled  in  spite  of 
himself.     It  was  a  gaunt,  reluctant  smile,  the  merest 


48  The  Retiirn  of  The  O'Mahony. 

curling  of  the  lips  at  their  corners;  but  it  sufficed 
in  a  twinkling  to  surround  him  with  beaming  faces. 
He  laughed  aloud  at  this,  and  on  the  instant  driver 
and  beggars  were  convulsed  with  merriment. 

The  O'Mahony  jumped  off  the  car. 

"  I'll  run  into  the  hotel  and  find  out  where  I  want 
to  go,"  he  said.     "  Wait  here." 

Two  minutes  passed. 

"  These  lawyers  live  in  Cork,"  he  explained  on 
his  return.  "  It  seems  this  is  only  Queenstown.  I 
I  want  you  to  go  to  Cork  with  me." 

"  Right,  your  honor,"  said  the  driver,  snapping 
his  whip  in  preparation. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  drive ;  it's  too  much  like  a 
funeral.     We  ain't  a-bur3'in'  anybody." 

"  Is  it  Maggie  your  honor  manes  ?  Sure,  there's 
no  finer  quality  of  a  mare  in  County  Cork,  if  she 
only  gets  dacent  encouragement." 

"Yes;  but  we  ain't  got  time  to  encourage  her. 
Go  and  put  her  out,  and  hustle  back  here  as  quick 
as  you  can.  I'll  pay  you  a  good  day's  wages. 
Hurr3^  now  ;  we'll  go  by  train." 

The  O'Mahony  distributed  small  silver  among  the 
beggars  the  Avhile  he  waited  in  front  of  the  hotel. 

"  That  laugh  was  worth  a  hundred  dollars  to  me," 
he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  the  beggars.  "  I 
hain't  laughed  before  since  Linsky  spilt  the  molasses 
over  his  head." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    INSTALLATION   OF   JERRY. 

The  visit  to  White  &  Carmody's  law-office  had 
weighed  heavily  upon  the  mind  of  The  O'Mahony 
during  the  whole  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  and  it 
still  was  the  burden  of  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  beside 
Jerry  Higgins — this  he  learned  to  be  the  car-dri- 
ver's name — in  the  train  which  rushed  up  the  side  of 
the  Lea  toward  Cork.  The  first-class  compartment 
to  which  Jerry  had  led  the  way  was  crowded  with 
people  who  had  arrived  by  the  Moldavian,  and  who 
scowled  at  their  late  fellow-passenger  for  having 
imposed  upon  them  the  unsavory  presence  of  the 
carman.  The  O'Mahony  was  too  deeply  occupied 
with  his  own  business  to  observe  this.  Jeny 
smiled  blandly  into  the  hostile  faces,  and  hummed  a 
"  come-all-ye  "  to  himpelf. 

When,  an  hour  or  so  after  their  arrival.  The 
O'Mahony  emerged  from  the  lavv^3^ers'  office  the 
waiting  Jerry  scarcely  knew  him  for  the  same  man. 
The  black  felt  hat,  which  had  been  pulled  down 
over  his  brows,  rested  with  easy  confidence  now 
well  back  on  his  head ;  his  gray  eyes  twinkled  with 
a  pleasant  light ;    the  long   face  had  lost  its  drawn 

[49] 


50  The  Return  of  The   G Mahony. 

lines  and  saturnine  expression,  and  reflected  con- 
tent instead. 

"  Come  along  somewhere  where  we  can  get  a 
drink,"  he  said  to  Jerry  ;  but  stopped  before  they 
had  taken  a  dozen  steps,  attracted  by  the  sign  and 
street-show  of  a  second-hand  clothing  shop.  "  Or 
no,"  he  said,  "come  in  here  first,  and  I'll  kind  o' 
spruce  you  up  a  bit  so't  you  can  pass  muster  in 
society." 

When  they  came  upon  the  street  again,  it  was 
Jerry  who  was  even  more  strikingly  metamor- 
phosed. The  captious  eye  of  one  whose  soul  is  in 
clothes  might  have  discerned  that  the  garments  he 
now  wore  had  not  been  originally  designed  for 
Jerry.  The  sleeves  of  the  coat  were  a  trifle  long  ; 
the  legs  of  the  trousers  just  a  suspicion  short.  But 
the  smile  with  which  he  surveyed  the  passing  reflec- 
tions of  his  improved  image  in  the  shop-windows 
was  all  his  own.  He  strode  along  jauntily,  carry- 
ing the  heavy  bags  as  if  they  had  been  mere  feather- 
weight parcels. 

The  two  made  their  wa}^  to  a  small  tavern  near 
the  quays,  which  Jerr}'^  knew  of,  and  where  The 
O'Mahony  ordered  a  room,  with  a  fire  in  it,  and  a 
comfortable  meal  to  be  laid  therein  at  once. 

"  Sure,  it's  not  becomin'  that  I  should  ate  along 
wid  your  honor,"  Jerry  remonstrated,  when  they  had 
been  left  alone  in  the  dingy  little  chamber,  over- 
looking the  street  and  the  docks  beyond. 

At  this  protest  The  O'Mahony  lifted  his  brows  in 
unaffected  surprise. 

"What's  the  matter  \v'\\\\  you  f'  he  asked,  half- 
derisively ;  and  no  more  was  said  on  the  subject. 


The  InstaUaiion  of  Jerry.  51 

No  more  was  said  on  any  subject,  for  that  matter, 
until  fish  had  succeeded  soup,  and  the  waiter  was 
aiaking-  ready  for  a  third  course.  Tiien  the  founder 
of  the  feast  said  to  this  menial  : 

*'  Sec  here,  you,  don't  play  this  on  me  !  Jest  tote 
in  whatever  more  j^ou've  got,  an'  put  er  down,  an' 
g"it  out.  We  don't  want  3'^ou  bobbin'  in  here  every 
second  minute,  all  the  afternoon." 

The  waiter,  with  an  aggrieved  air,  brought  in 
presentl}'^  a  tray  loaded  with  dishes,  wdiich  he 
plumped  down  all  over  The  O'Mahony's  half,  of  the 
table. 

"  That's  somethin'  like  it,"  said  that  gentleman, 
approvingly  ;  "you'll  get  the  hang  of  your  business 
in  time,  young  man,"  as  the  servant  left  the  room. 
Then  he  heaped  up  Jerry's  plate  and  his  own, 
ruminated  over  a  mouthful  or  two,  with  his  eyes 
searching  the  other's  face — and  began  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  know  what  made  me  take  a  shine  to 
3^ou  ?"  he  asked,  and  then  made  answer:  "  'Twas  on 
account  of  your  dodrotted  infernal  cheek.  It  made 
me  laugh— an'  I'd  got  so  it  seemed  as  if  I  wasn't 
never  goin'  to  laugh  any  more.  That's  why  I  cot- 
toned to  you — an' got  a  notion  3'ou  was  jest  the 
kind  o'  fellow  I  wanted.     D'3'e  know  who  I  am  ?" 

Jerry^'s  quizzical  e3'es  studied  his  companion's 
face  in  turn,  first  doubtingly',  then  with  an  air  of 
reassurance. 

"  I  do  not,  3'our  honor,"  he  said  at  last,  visibl3'- 
restraining  the  impulse  to  sa3'  a  great  deal  more. 

"  I'm  the  0"Mahon3-  of  Murrisk,  'an  I'm  returnin' 
to  m3'  estates." 

Jerr3^  did   prolonged  but  successful    battle    once 


52  TJie  Return  of  The   OMahony, 

more  with  his  sense  of  humor  and  h^quacious  in- 
stincts. 

"  All  right,  your  honor,"  he  said,  with  humilit}'. 

"  Maybe  I  don't  look  like  an  Irishman  or  talk  like 
one,"  the  other  went  on,  "  but  that's  because  I  was 
taken  to  America  when  I  was  a  little  shaver,  knee- 
high  to  a  grasshopper,  an*  my  folks  didn't  keep  up 
no  connection  with  Irishmen,  That's  how  I  lost  my 
grip  on  the  hull  Ireland  business,  don't  you  see?" 

"  Sure,  )^our  honor,  it's  as  clear  as  Spike  Island  in 
the  sunshine." 

"  Well,  that's  how  it  was.  And  now  my  relations 
over  here  have  died  off — that  is,  all  that  stood  in 
front  of  me — and  so  the  estates  come  to  me,  and  I'm 
The  O'xMahony." 

"An'  it's  proud  ivery  mother's  son  of  your  tin- 
ints  '11  be  at  that  same,  your  honor." 

"  At  first,  of  course,  I  didn't  know  but  the  lawyers 
'ud  make  a  kick  when  I  turned  up  and  claimed  the 
thing.  Generally  you  have  to  go  to  law,  an'  take 
your  oath,  an'  fight  everybody.  But,  pshaw  !  wh)' 
the}^  jest  swallered  me  slick  'n  clean,  as  if  I'd  had  m  \- 
ears  pinned  back  an'  be'n  greased  all  over.  Never 
asked  *  ah,' '  yes,'  or  '  no.'  Didn't  raise  a  single  ques- 
tion. I  guess  there  ain't  no  White  in  the  business 
now.  I  didn't  see  him  or  hear  anything  about  him. 
But  Carmody's  a  reg'lar  old  brick.  They  w^asn't 
nothin'  too  good  for  me  after  he  learnt  who  I  was. 
But  what  fetched  him  most  was  that  I'd  seen  Abe 
Lincoln,  close  to,  dozens  o'  times.  He  was  crazy  to 
know  all  about  him,  an'  the  assassination,  an'  what 
I  thought  'ud  be  the  next  move  ;  so  't  we  hardly 
talked  about  The  O'Mahony  business  at  all.     An'  it 


The  Installation  of  Jei'ry.  53 

seems  ther's  been  a  lot  o'  shenanigan  about  it,  too. 
The  fellow  that  came  out  to  America  to — ;to  find 
me — Linsky  his  name  was — why,  darn  my  buttons, 
if  he  hadn't  run  away  from  Cork,  an'  stole  my  papers 
along  with  a  lot  of  others,  countin'  on  r^eddlin'  'em 
over  there  an'  collarin'  the  money." 

"  Ah,  the  thief  of  the  earth  !"  said  Jerry. 

"  Well,  he  got  killed  there,  in  about  the  last  battle 
there  was  in  the  war  ;  an'  'twas  by  the  finding  of  the 
papers  on  him  that — that  I  came  by  my  rights." 

"  Glory  be  to  God  !''  commented  Jerry,  as  he 
buried  his  jowl  afresh  in  the  tankard  of  stout. 

A  term  of  silence  ensued,  during  which  what 
remained  of  the  food  was  disposed  of.  Then  The 
O'Mahony  spoke  again  : 

"Are  you  a  man  of  family  ?'" 

"  Well,  your  honor,  I've  never  rightly  come  by 
the  truth  of  it,  but  there  are  thim  that  says  I'm 
descinded  from  the  O'Higginses  of  Westmeath. 
I'd  not  venture  to  take  me  Bible  oath  on  it,  but — " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  Have  you  got  a  wife  an' 
children?" 

"  Is  it  me,  your  honor?  Arrah,  what  girl  that 
wasn't  blind  an'  crippled  an'  deminted  wid  fits  wud 
take  up  wid  the  likes  of  me  ?" 

"Well,  what  is  your  job  down  at  Queenstown 
like?  Can  you  leave  it  right  off,  not  to  go  back  any 
more  ?" 

*'  It's  no  job  at  all.  Siirc.  1  jist  take  out  Mikey 
Doolan's  car,  wid  that  thund'rin' old  Maggie,  givin' 
warnin'  to  fall  to  pieces  on  the  road  in  front  of  me, 
for  friendship — to  exercise  'em  like.  It's  not  till 
every  other  horse  and  ass  in  Queenstown's  ingaged 


54  The  RctiLrji  of  The   G Mahony. 

that  anny  mortial  sowl  '11  ride  on  my  car.  An'  whin 
I  gets  a  fare,  why,  I  do  be  after  that  long  waitin' 
that—" 

"  That  you  drive  'em  up  on  top  of  the  hill  whether 
they  want  to  go  or  not,  eh?"  asked  Th3  O'Mahony, 
with  a  grin. 

Jerry  took  the  liberty'  of  winking  at  his  patrc^n  in 
response. 

*'  Egor !  that's  the  way  of  it,  your  honor,"  he  said, 
pleasantl3\ 

"  So  you  don't  have  to  go  back  there  at  all  ?"  pur- 
sued the  other. 

"Divila  rayson  have  I  for  ever  settin'  fut  in  the 
Cove  ag'in,  if  your  honor  has  work  for  me  else- 
where." 

"  I  guess  I  can  fix  that,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  speak- 
ing more  slowly,  and  studying  his  man  as  he  spoke. 
"  You  see,  I  ain't  got  a  man  in  this  hull  Ireland  that 
1  can  call  a  friend.  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  your 
ways,  no  more'n  a  babe  unborn.  It  took  me  jest 
about  two  minutes,  after  I  got  out  through  the  Cus- 
tom House,  to  figger  out  that  1  was  goin'  to  need 
some  one  to  sort  o'  steer  me — and  need  him  power- 
ful bad,  too.  Why,  I  can't  even  reckon  in  your 
blamed  money,  over  here.  You  call  a  shillin'  what 
we'd  call  two  shillin's,  an'  there  ain't  no  such  thing 
as  a  dollar.  Now,  I'm  goin'  out  to  my  estates,  where 
I  don't  know  a  livin'  soul,  an'  prob'l}^  they'd  jest  rob 
me  out  o'  my  eye-teeth,  if  I  hadn't  got  some  one  to 
look  after  me — some  one  that  knew  his  way  around. 
D'ye  see?" 

The  car-driver's  eyes  sparkled,  but  he  shook  his 
curly  red  head  with  doubt,  upon  reflection. 


The  Iiistalla-tioji  of  Jerry.  55 

"  You've  been  fair  wid  me,  sir,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause,  "  an'  I'll  not  be  behind  you  in  honesty.  You 
don't  know  me  at  all.  What  the  divil,  man  ! — why, 
1  might  be  the  most  rebellious  rogue  in  all  County 
Cork."  He  scratched  his  head  with  added  dubiety, 
as  he  went  on  ;  "  An',  for  the  matter  of  that,  faith, 
if  you  did  know  me,  it's  some  one  else  3'ou'd  take. 
There's  no  one  in  the  Cove  that  'ud  give  me  a  charac- 
ter." 

"  You're  right,"  observed  The  O'Mahony.  "  I 
don't  know  you  from  a  side  o'  soleleather.  But 
that's  my  style.  I  like  a  fellow,  or  I  don't  like  him, 
and  I  do  it  on  my  own  hook,  follerin'  my  own 
notions,  and  just  to  suit  myself.  I've  been  siz'in' 
you  up,  all  around,  an'  1  like  the  cut  o'  your  gib. 
You  might  be  washed  up  a  trifle  more,  p'r'aps,  and 
have  your  hair  cropped  ;  but  them's  details.  The 
main  point  is,  that  1  believe  you'll  act  fair  and 
square  with  me,  an  see  to  it  that  I  git  a  straight 
deal!" 

"  Sir,  I'll  go  to  the  end  of  the  earth  for  you,"  said 
Jerry,  He  rose,  and  by  an  instinctive  movement, 
the  two  men  shook  hands  across  the  table. 

"  That's  right,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  referring 
more  to  the  clasping  of  hands  than  to  the  vow  of 
fealty.  "  That's  the  way  I  want  'er  to  stand.  Don't 
call  me  'yer  honor,'  or  any  o'  that  sort  o'  palaver. 
I've  been  a  poor  man  all  my  life.  I  ain't  used  to 
bossin'  niggers  around,  or  pla3in'  off  that  I'm 
better'n  other  folks.  Now  that  I'm  returnin'  to  my 
estates,  prob'ly  I'll  have  to  stomach  more  or  less  of 
that  sort  o'  nonsense.  That's  one  of  the  things  I'll 
want  you  to  steer  me  in." 


"56  The  Return  of  The   G Mahony. 

"  An  might  I  be  askin',  where  are  these  estates, 
sir?" 

"  So  far  's  I  can  make  out,  the3''re  near  where  we 
come  in  sight  of  Ireland  first;  it  can't  be  very  far 
from  here.  They're  on  the  seashore — I  know  that 
much.  We  go  to  Dunmanway,  wherever  that  is,  by 
the  railroad  to-morrow,  and  there  the  lawyers  have 
telegraphed  to  have  the  agent  meet  us.  From  there 
on,  we've  got  to  stage  it.  The  place  itself  is 
Murrisk,  beyond  Skull — nice,  comfortable,  soothin' 
sort  o'  names  you  Irish  have  for  your  towns,  eh  ?" 

"And  what  time'll  we  be  startin'  to-morrow?" 

"  The  train  leaves  at  noon — that  is,  for  Dunman- 
way." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Jerry,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

The  O'Mahony  turned  upon  him  with  such  an 
obviously  questioning  glance  that  he  made  haste  to 
explain  : 

"  I'll  be  bound  your  honor  hasn't  been  to  mass 
since — since  ye  were  like  that  grasshopper  ye  spoke 
about." 

"  Mass — no — how  d'ye  mean?     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Luk  at  that,  now  !"  exclaimed  Jerry,  trium- 
phantly. "  See  what  'd  'a'  come  to  3-e  if  3'e'd  gone  to 
3^ our  estates  without  knowing  the  first  word  of  3^our 
Christian  obligations  !  We'll  rise  earl3'  to-morrow, 
and  I'll  get  ye  through  all  the  masses  there  are  in 
Cork,  betune  thin  an'  midday." 

"  Gad  !  I'd  clean  forgotten  that,"  said  The 
O'Mahony.  "  An'  now  let's  git  out  an'  see  the 
town." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   HEREDITARY    BARD. 

Two  hours  and  more  of  the  afternoon  were  spent 
before  The  O'Mahony  and  his  new  companion  next 
day  reached  Dunmanway. 

The  morning  had  been  devoted,  for  the  most  part, 
to  church-going,  and  The  O'Mahony 's  mind  was 
still  confused  with  a  bewildering  jumble  of  candles, 
bells  and  embroidered  gowns;  of  boj^s  in  frocks 
swinging  little  kettles  of  smoke  by  long  chains;  of 
books  printed  on  one  side  in  English  and  on  the 
other  in  an  unknown  tongue  ;  of  strange  necessities 
for  standing,  kneeling,  sitting  all  together,  at  differ- 
ent times,  for  no  apparent  reason  which  he  could 
discover,  and  at  no  word  of  command  whatever. 
He  meditated  upon  it  all  now,  as  the  slow  train 
bumped  its  wandering  way  into  the  west,  as  upon 
some  novel  kind  of  drill,  which  it  was  obviously 
going  to  take  him  a  long  time  to  master.  He  had 
his  moments  of  despondency  at  the  prospect,  until 
he  reflected  that  if  the  poorest,  least  intelligent, 
hod-carrying  Irishman  alive  knew  it  all,  he  ought 
surely   to  be  able  to  learn  it.     This  hopeful  view 

[57] 


58  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

gaining  pi-edominance  at  last  in  his  thoughts,  he 
had  leisure  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

The  country  through  which  they  passed  was  for 
a  long  distance  fairly  level,  with  broad  stretches  of 
fair  grass-fields  and  strips  of  ploughed  land,  the  soil 
of  which  seemed  richness  itself.  The  O'Mahony 
noted  this,  but  was  still  more  interested  in  the  fact 
that  stone  was  the  only  building  material  anywhere 
in  sight.  The  few  large  houses,  the  multitude  of 
cabins,  the  high  fences  surrounding  residences,  the 
low  fences  limiting  farm  lands,  even  the  very  gate- 
posts— all  were  of  gray  stone,  and  all  as  identical  in 
color  and  aspect  as  if  Ireland  contained  but  a  single 
quarry. 

The  stone  had  come  to  be  a  very  prominent  fea- 
ture in  the  natural  landscape  as  well,  before  their 
journey  by  rail  ended — a  cold,  wild,  hard-featured 
landscape,  with  scant  brown  grass  barely  masking 
the  black  of  the  bog  lands,  and  dying  off  at  the 
fringes  of  gaunt  layers  of  rock  which  thrust  their 
heads  everywhere  upon  the  vision.  The  O'lNIahony 
observed  with  curiosity  that  as  the  land  grew 
poorer,  the  population,  housed  all  in  wretched 
hovels,  seemed  to  increase,  and  the  burning  fire- 
yellow  of  the  furze  blossoms  all  about  made  lurid 
mockery  of  the  absence  of  crops. 

Dunmanway  was  then  the  terminus  of  the  line, 
which  has  since  been  pushed  onward  to  Bantr}'.  The 
two  travellers  got  out  here  and  stood  almost  alone 
on  the  stone  platform  with  their  luggage.  They 
were,  indeed,  the  only  first-class  passengers  in  the 
train. 

As    they    glanced    about    them,   they    were   ap' 


Hereditary  Bard  59 


proached  b}'  a  diminutive  man,  past  middle  age, 
dressed  in  a  costume  which  The  O'Mahony  had 
seen  once  or  twice  on  the  stage,  but  never  before  in 
every-day  life.  He  was  a  clean-shaven,  swarth}-- 
faced  little  man,  lean  as  a  withered  bean-pod,  and 
clad  in  a  long-tailed  coat  with  brass  buttons,  a  long 
waist-coat,  drab  corduroy  knee-breeches  and  gray 
worsted  stockings.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  high 
silk  hat  of  antique  pattern,  dulled  and  rusty  with 
extreme  age.  He  took  this  off  as  he  advanced,  and 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  twain  doubt- 
ingly. 

"  Is  it  The  O'Mahony  of  Muirisc  that  I  have  the 
honor  to  see  before  me?"  he  asked,  his  little  ferret 
eyes  dividing  their  glances  in  hesitation  between 
the  two. 

"  I'm  3'our  huckleberry,"  said  The  O'Mahony, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

The  small  man  bent  his  shriveled  form  double  in 
salutation,  and  took  the  proffered  hand  with  cere- 
monious formality. 

"  Sir,  you're  kindly  welcome  back  to  your  ances- 
thral  domain,"  he  said,  with  an  emotional  quaver  in 
his  thin,  high  voice.  "All  your  people  are  Avaitin' 
with  anxiety  and  pleasure  for  the  sight  of  your  face." 

"  1  hope  they've  got  us  somethin'  to  eat,"  said  The 
O'Mahony.  "  We  had  breakfast  at  daybreak  this 
morning,  so's  to  work  the  churches,  and  I'm — " 

"His  honor,"  hastily  interposed  Jerry,  "is  that 
pious  he  can't  sleep  of  a  mornin'  for  pinin'  to  hear 
mass." 

The  little  man's  dark  face  softened  at  the  infor- 
mation.    He  guessed  Jerry's  status  by  it,  as  well, 


6o  The  Return  of  The  G MaJiony. 

and  nodded  at  him  while  he  bowed  once  more  before 
The  O'Mahony. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  to  order  some  slight  refresh- 
mints  at  the  hotel,  sir,  against  your  coming,"  he 
said.  "  If  you'll  do  me  the  condescinsion  to  follow 
me,  1  will  conduct  you  thither  without  delay." 

They  followed  their  guide,  as  he,  bearing  himself 
very  proudly  and  swinging  his  shoulders  in  rythm 
with  his  gait,  picked  his  way  across  the  square, 
through  the  mud  of  the  pig-market,  and  down  a 
narrow  street  of  ancient,  evil-smelling  rookeries,  to 
the  chief  tavern  of  the  town — a  cramped  and  dismal 
little  hostelry,  with  unwashed  children  playing  with 
a  dog  in  the  doorway,  and  a  shock-headed  stable- 
boy  standing  over  them  to  do  with  low  bows  the 
honors  of  the  house. 

The  room  into  which  they  were  shown,  though 
no  whit  cleaner  than  the  rest,  had  a  comfortable  fire 
upon  the  grate,  and  a  plentiful  meal,  of  cold  meat 
and  steaming  potatoes  boiled  in  their  jackets,  laid  on 
the  table.  Jerry  put  down  the  bags  here,  and 
disappeared  before  The  O'Mahony  could  speak. 
The  O'Mahony  promptly  sent  the  waiter  after  him, 
and  upon  his  return  spoke  with  some  sharpness  : 

"  Jerry,  don't  give  me  any  more  of  this,"  he  said. 
"  You  can  chore  it  around,  and  make  yourself  useful 
to  me,  as  you've  always  done  ;  but  you  git  your 
meals  with  me,  d'  ye  hear?  Right  alongside  of  me, 
every  time." 

Thus  the  table  was  laid  for  three,  and  the 
O'Mahony  made  his  companions  acquainted  with 
each  other. 

"  This   is   Jerry    Higgins,"    he    explained    to    the 


The  Hereditary  Bard.  6i 

wondering',  swart-vnsaged  little  man.  "  He's  sort  o' 
chief  cook  and  bottle-washer  to  the  establishment, 
but  he's  so  bashful  afore  strangers,  I  have  to  talk 
sharp  to  him  now  an'  then.  And  let's  see — I  don't 
think  the  lawyer  told  me  your  name." 

"  I  am  Cormac  O'Daly,"  said  the  other,  bowing 
wath  proud  humility.  "  An  O'Mahony  has  had  an 
O'Daly  to  chronicle  his  deeds  of  valor  and  daring, 
to  sing  his  praises  of  person  and  prowess,  since  ages 
before  Kian  fought  at  Clontarf  and  married  the 
daughter  of  the  great  Brian  Boru.  Oppression  and 
poverty,  sir,  have  diminished  the  position  of  the 
bard  in  most  parts  of  Ireland,  I'm  informed.  All 
the  O'Dalys  that  in  former  times  were  bards  to  The 
O'Neill  in  Ulster,  The  O'Reilly  of  Brefny,  The 
MacCarthy  in  Desmond  and  The  O'Farrell  oi 
Annaly — faith,  they've  disappeared  from  the  face  of 
the  earth.  But  in  Muirisc — glory  be  to  the  Lord  ! — ■ 
there's  still  an  O'Daly  to  welcome  the  O'Mahony 
back  and  sing  the  celebration  of  his  achievements." 

"  Sort  o'  song-and-dance  man,  then,  eh  ?"  said 
The  O'Mahony,  "  Well,  after  dinner  we'll  push 
the  table  back  an'  give  you  a  show.  But  let's  eat 
first." 

The  little  man  for  the  moment  turned  upon  the 
speaker  a  glance  of  surprise,  which  seemed  to  have 
in  it  the  elements  of  pain.  Then  he  spoke,  as  if  re- 
assured : 

"  Ah,  sir,  in  America,  where  I'm  told  the  Irish 
are  once  more  a  rich  and  powerful  people,  our 
ancient  nobility  would  have  their  bards,  with  rale 
harps  and  voices  for  singing.  But  in  this  poor 
country  it's  only  a  mettj^^horical  existence  a  bard 


62  The  Return  of  Tuc   O MaJiony. 

can  have.  Whin  I  spoke  the  word  '  song,'  my  in- 
tintion  was  allegorical.  Sure,  'tis  drivin'  you  from 
the  house  I'd  be  after  doing,  were  1  to  sing  in  the 
ginuine  maning  of  the  word.  But  I  have  here  some 
small  verses  which  I  composed  this  day,  while  1 
was  waitin'  in  the  pig-market,  that  you  might  not 
be  indisposed  to  listen  to,  and  to  accept" 

O'Daly  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  sheet  of 
soiled  and  crumpled  paper  forthwith,  on  which  some 
lines  had  been  scrawled  in  pencil.  Smoothing  this 
out  upon  the  table,  he  donned  a  pair  of  big,  horn- 
rimmed spectacles,  and  proceeded  to  decipher  and 
slowly  read  out  the  following,  the  while  the  others 
ate  and,  marvelinsr  much,  listened: ' 


I. 

What  do  the  guiis  scream  as  they  wheel 

Along  Dunmanus'  broken  shore  ? 
AVhat  do  the  wjst  winds,  keening  shrill. 
Call  to  each  ot^sr  for  evermore  ? 

From  Muirisc's  reeds,  from  Goleen's  weeds. 
From  Gabriel's  summit,  Skull's  low  lawn. 
The  echoes  answer,  through  their  tears, 
'  O'Mahony's  gone !     O'Mahony's  gone  !' 

II, 

'  But  now  the  sunburst  brightens  all, 
The  clouds  are  lifted,  waters  gleam. 
Long  pain  forgotten,  glad  tears  fall. 
At  waking  from  this  evil  dream. 

The  cawing  rooks,  the  singing  brooks. 

The  zephjrr's  sighs,  the  bee's  soft  hum. 
All  tell  the  tale  of  our  delight — 
*  O'Mahony's  come !  O'Mahony's  come  !' 


The  Hereditary  Bard.  6 


J 


"  O'Mahony  of  the  white-foamed  coast, 
Of  Kinalmeaky's  nut-brown  plains, 
Lord  of  Rosbrin,  proud  Raithlean's  boast, 
Who  over  the  waves  and  the  sea-mist  reigns. 
Let  Clancy  quake !  O'DriscoU  shake  ! 
The  O'Casey  hide  his  head  in  fear! 
While  Saxons  flee  across  the  sea — 
O'Mahony's  here  !  O'Mahony 's  here!" 

The  bard  linished  iiis  reading  with  a  trembling' 
voice,  and  looked  at  his  auditors  earnestly  through 
moistened  eyes.  The  excitement  had  brought  a  dim 
flush  of  color  upon  his  leathery  cheeks  where  the 
blue-black  line  of  close  shaving  ended. 

"  It's  to  be  sung  to  the  chune  of  '  The  West's 
Awake!'  "  he  said  at  last,  with  diffidence. 

"  You  did  that  all  with  your  own  jack-knife,  eh  ?'' 
remarked  the  The  O'Mahon}",  nodding  in  approba- 
tion.    "  Well,  sir,  it's  darned  good  !" 

"  Then  you're  plased  with  it,  sir?"  asked  the  poet. 

"  '  Pleased  !'  Why,  man,  if  I'd  known  they  felt 
that  way  about  it,  I'd  have  come  3-ears  ago, 
'Pleased?'     Why  it's  downright  po'try," 

"  Ah,  that  it  is,  sir,"  put  in  Jerry,  sympathetically. 
"  And  to  think  of  it  that  he  did  it  all  in  the  pig- 
market  whiles  he  waited  for  us!  Egor !  'twould 
take  me  the  best  pai-t  of  a  week  to  conthrive  as 
much  !" 

O'Daly  glanced  at  him  with  severity. 

"  Maybe  more  yet,"  he  said,  tersely,  and  resumed 
his  long-interrupted  meal. 

"  And  you're  goin'  to  be  around  all  the  while,  eh, 


64  The  Rct2i7'n    of  The   G MahoiLy. 

ready  to  turn  these  poems  out  on  short  notice?"  the 
O'Mahony  asked, 

"  Sir,  an  0'Dal3^'s  poor  talents  are  day  and  night 
at  the  command  of  the  O'Mahony  of  IMuirisc,"  the 
bard  replied.  Then,  scanning  Jerry,  he  put  a  ques- 
tion : 

"  Is  Mr.  Higgins  long  with  you,  sir?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  a  long  while,"  answered  The  O'Mahony, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  Yes — I  wouldn't 
know  how  to  get  along  without  him — he's  been  one 
of  the  family  so  long,  now." 

The  near-sighted  poet  failed  to  observe  the  wink 
which  was  exchanged  across  the  table. 

"  The  name  Higgins,"  he  remarked,  "  is  properly 
MacEgan.  It  is  a  very  honorable  name.  They  were 
hereditary  Brehons  or  judges,  in  both  Desmond  and 
Ormond,  and,  later,  in  Connaught,  too.  The  name 
is  also  called  O'Higgins  and  O'Hagan.  If  3'ou 
would  permit  me  to  suggest,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "it 
would  be  betther  at  Muirisc  if  Mr.  Higgins  were  to 
resume  his  ancestral  appellation,  and  consint  to  be 
known  as  MacEgan,  The  children  there  are  that 
well  grounded  in  Irish  history,  the  name  would 
secure  for  him  additional  respect  in  their  eyes.  And 
moreover,  sir,  saving  Mr.  Higgins's  feelings,  I  ob- 
served that  you  called  him  'Jerry.'  Now  'Jerry* 
is  appropriate  when  among  intimate  friends  or  re- 
lations, or  bechune  master  and  man — and  its  more 
ceremonious  form,  Jeremiah,  is  greatly  used  in  the 
less  educated  parts  of  this  country.  But,  sir, 
Jeremiah  is,  strictly  speaking,  no  name  for  an  Irish- 
man at  all,  but  only  the  cognomen  of  a  Hebrew 
bard  who  followed  the  Israelites  into  captivit}^  like 


The  Hereditary  Bard.  65 

Owen  Ward  did  the  O'Neils  into  exile.  It's  a  base 
and  vulgar  invintion  of  the  Saxons — this  new  Irish 
Jeremiah — for  why?  because  their  thick  tongues 
could  not  pronounce  the  beautiful  old  Irish  name 
Diarmid  or  Dermot.  Manny  poor  people  for 
want  of  understanding,  forgets  this  now.  But  in 
Muirisc  the  laste  intelligent  child  knows  betther. 
Therefore,  I  would  suggest  that  when  we  arrive  at 
your  ancesthral  abode,  sir,  Mr.  Higgins's  name  be 
given  as  Diarmid  MacEgan." 

"  An'  a  foine  bould  name  it  is,  too  !"  said  Jerry. 
"  Egor !  if  I'm  called  that,  and  called  rigular  to  me 
males  as  well,  I'll  put  whole  inches  to  my  stature." 

"  Well,  O'Daly,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  "  you  just 
run  that  part  of  the  show  to  suit  yourself.  If  you 
hear  of  anything  that  wants  changin'  any  time,  or 
whittlin'  down  or  bein'  spelt  different,  you  can  inter- 
fere right  then  an'  there  without  sayin'  anything  to 
me.  What  I  want  is  to  have  things  done  correct, 
even  if  we're  out  o'  pocket  by  it.  You're  the  agent 
of  the  estate,  ain't  you  ?" 

"I  am  that,  sir;  and  likewise  the  postmaster,  the 
physician,  the  precepthor,  the  tax-collector,  the 
clerk  of  the  parish,  the  poor  law  guardian  and  the  at- 
torney ;  notto  mintion  the  proud  hereditary  post  to 
which  I've  already  adverted,  that  of  bard  and  his- 
torian to  The  O'Mahony.  But,  sir,  I  see  that  your 
family  carriage  is  at  the  dure.  We'll  be  startin* 
now,  if  it's  your  pleazure.  It's  a  long  journey  we've 
before  us." 

When  the  bill  had  been  called  for  and  paid  by 
O'Daly,   and    they   had    reached    the   street,    The 


66  The  Return  of  The  O' Mahony. 

O'Mahony  surveyed  with  a  lively  interest  the 
sti-ange  vehicle  drawn  up  at  the  curb  before  him. 
In  principle  it  was  like  the  outside  cars  he  had  yes- 
terday seen  for  the  first  time,  but  much  lower,  nar- 
rower and  lonf^er.  The  seats  upon  which  occupants 
were  expected  to  place  themselves  back  to  back, 
were  close  tog-ether,  and  cushioned  only  with  worn 
old  pieces  of  cow-skin.  Between  the  shafts  was  a 
shagg-y  and  unkempt  little  beast,  which  was  engaged 
in  showing  its  teeth  viciously  at  the  children  and 
the  dog.  The  whole  equipage  looked  a  century  old 
at  the  least. 

At  the  end  of  four  hours  the  rough-coated  pony 
was  still  scurrying  along  the  stony  road  at  a  rattling 
pace.  It  had  galloped  up  the  hills  and  i-aced  down 
into  the  valleys  with  no  break  of  speed  from  the 
beginning.  The  O'Mahony,  grown  accustomed 
now  to  maintaining  his  seat,  thought  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  horse  before,  and  said  so  to  O'Dal}', 
who  sat  beside  him,  Jerry  and  the  bag  being  dis- 
posed on  the  opposite  side,  and  the  driver,  a  silent, 
round-shouldered,  undersized  young  man  sitting  in 
front  with  his  feet  on  the  shafts. 

"  Ah,  sir,  our  bastes  are  like  our  people  here- 
abouts," replied  the  bard — "  not  much  to  look  at, 
but  with  hearts  of  goold.  They'll  run  till  they  fall. 
But,  sir — halt,  now,  Malachy  ! — yonder  you  can  see 
Muirisc." 

The  jaunting-car  stopped.  The  April  twilight 
was  gathering  in  the  clear  sky  above  them,  and 
shadows  were  rising  from  the  brown  bases  of  the 
mountains  to  their  right.  The  whole  journey  had 
been  through  a  bleak  and  desolate  moor  and  bog^ 


The  Hereditary  Bard.  67 

land,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  lonely  glen,  in  the 
shelter  of  which  a  score  of  stone  hovels  were  clus- 
tered, and  to  which  all  attempts  at  tillage  were  con- 
fined. 

Now,  as  The  O'Mahony  looked,  he  saw  stretched 
before  liim,  some  hundred  feet  below,  a  great,  level 
plain,  from  which,  in  the  distance,  a  solitary  moun- 
tain ridge  rose  abruptly.  This  plain  was  wedge- 
shaped,  and  its  outlines  were  sharply  defined  by  the 
glow  of  evening  light  upon  the  waters  surrounding 
it — waters  which  dashed  in  white-breakers  against 
the  rocky  coast  nearest  by,  but  seemed  to  lie  in 
placid  quiescence  on  the  remote  farther  shore. 

It  was  toward  this  latter  dark  line  of  coast,  half- 
obscured  now  as  they  gazed  by  rising  sea-mists, 
that  O'Daly  pointed ;  and  The  O'Mahon}^  scanning 
the  broad,  dusky  landscape,  made  out  at  last  some 
flickering  sparks  of  reddish  light  close  to  where  the 
waters  met  the  land. 

"See,  O'Mahoney,  see!"  the  little  man  cried,  his 
claw-like  hand  trembling  as  he  pointed.  "  Those 
lights  burned  there  for  Kian  when  he  never  return- 
ed from  Clontarf,  eight  hundred  years  ago  ;  they 
are  burning  there  now  for  you !" 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   O'MAHONY'S    HOME-WELCOME. 

The  road  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  down  to  the 
plain  wound  in  such  devious  courses  through  rock- 
lined  defiles  and  bog-paths  shrouded  with  stunted 
tangles  of  scrub-trees,  that  an  hour  elapsed  before 
The  O'Mahony  again  saw  the  fires  which  had  been 
lighted  to  greet  his  return.  This  hour's  drive  went 
in  silence,  for  the  way  was  too  rough  for  talk. 
Darkness  fell,  and  then  the  full  moon  rose  and 
wrapped  the  wild  landscape  in  strange,  misty  lights 
and  weird  shadows. 

All  at  once  the  car  emerged  from  the  obscurity 
of  overhanging  trees  and  bowlders,  and  the 
travellers  found  themselves  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
hamlet  of  Muirisc.  The  road  they  had  been  travers- 
ing seemed  to  have  come  suddenly  to  an  end  in  a 
great  barn-yard,  in  the  center  of  which  a  bonfire 
was  blazing,  and  around  which,  in  the  reddish 
flickering  half-lights,  a  lot  of  curiously  shaped  stone 
buildings,  little  and  big,  old  and  new,  were  jumbled 
in  sprawling  picturesqueness. 

About  the  fire  a  considerable  crowd  of  persons 
were  gathered — thin,  little  men  in  long  coats  and 
knee-breeches ;  old,  white-capped  women  with 
large,  black  hooded  cloaks ;    younger  women  with 

m 


The   O Alahouys  Home-Welcome.  69 

crimson  petticoats  and  bare  feet  and  ankles,  children 
of  all  sizes  and  ages  clustering  about  their  skirts 
— perhaps  a  hundred  souls  in  all.  Though  The 
O'Mahony  had  very  little  poetic  imagination  or 
pictorial  sensibility,  he  was  conscious  that  the 
spectacle  was  a  curious  one. 

As  the  car  came  to  a  stop,  O'Daly  leaped  lightly 
to  the  ground,  and  ran  over  to  the  throng  by  the 
bonfire. 

"  Now  thin  !"  he  called  out,  with  vehemence, 
"  have  ye  swallowed  ye're  tongues  ?  Follow  me 
now!  Cheers  for  The  O'Mahony!  Now  thin! 
One — two — " 

The  little  man  waved  his  arms,  and  at  the  signal, 
led  by  his  piping  voice,  the  assembled  villagers  sent 
up  a  concerted  shout,  which  filled  the  shadowed 
rookeries  round  about  with  rival  echoes  of 
"  hurrahs"  and  "  hurroos,"  and  then  broke,  like  an 
exploding  rocket,  into  a  shower  of  high  pitched, 
unintelligible  ejaculations. 

Amidst  this  welcoming  chorus  of  remarks,  which 
be  could  not  understand,  The  O'Mahony  alighted, 
and  walked  toward  the  fii^,  closely  followed  by 
Jerry,  and  by  Malachy,  the  driver,  bearing  the  bags. 

For  a  moment  he  almost  feared  to  be  overthrown 
by  the  spontaneous  rush  which  the  black-cloaked  old 
women  made  upon  him,  clutching  at  his  arms  and 
shoulders  and  deafening  his  ears  with  a  babel  of 
outlandish  sounds.  But  O'Daly  came  instantly  to 
his  rescue,  pushing  back  the  eager  crones  with  vig- 
orous roughness,  and  scolding  them  in  two  languages 
in  sharp  peremptory  tones. 

"  Back  there  wid  ye,  Biddy  Quinn  !     Now  thin, 


JO  The  Return  of   The  O'Mahony. 

ould  deludherer,  will  ye  hould  yer  pace!  Come 
along  out  o'  that,  Petlier's  Mag  !  Lave  his  honor  a 
free  path,  will  ye  !"  Thus,  with  stern  remonstrance, 
backed  by  cuffs  and  pushes,  O'Daly  cleared  the 
way,  and  The  O'Mahony  found  himself  half-forced, 
half-guided  away  from  the  fire  and  toward  a  tall  and 
sculptured  archway,  which  stood  alone,  quite  inde- 
pendent of  any  adjoining  wall,  upon  the  nearest 
edge  of  what  he  took  to  be  the  barnyard. 

Passing  under  this  impressive  mediaeval  gateway, 
he  confronted  a  strange  pile  of  buildings,  gray  and 
hoar  in  the  moonlight  where  their  surface  was  not 
covered  thick  with  ivy.  There  were  high  pinnacles 
thrusting  their  jagged  points  into  the  sky  line,  which 
might  be  either  chimneys  or  watch-towers  ;  there 
were  lofty  gabled  walls,  from  which  the  roofs  had 
fallen ;  there  were  arched  window-holes,  through 
which  vines  twisted  their  umbrageous  growth 
unmolested ;  and  side  b}'  side  with  these  signs  of 
bygone  ruin,  there  were  puzzling  tokens  of  present 
occupation, 

A  stout,  elderly  woman,  in  the  white,  frilled  cap 
of  her  district,  with  a  shawl  about  her  shoulders  and 
a  bright-red  skirt,  stood  upon  the  steps  of  what 
seemed  the  doorway  of  a  church,  bowing  to  the 
new-comer.  Behind  her,  in  the  hall,  glowed  the 
light  of  a  hospitable,  homelike  fire. 

"  It  is  his  honor  come  back  to  his  own,  Mrs,  Sulli- 
van," the  stranger  heard  O'Daly 's  voice  call  out. 

"  And  it's  kindly  welcome  ye  are,  sir,"  said  the 
woman,  bowing  again.  "  Yer  honor  doen't  remim- 
ber  me,  perhaps,  I  was  Nora  O'Mara,  thin,  in  the 
day  whin  ye  were  a  wee  bit  of  a  lad,  before  your 


The  OMaho)iys  Home-Welcome.  yi 

father  and  mother — God  rest  their  sowls! — crossed 
the  say," 

"  I'm  afraid  I  doen't  jest  place  you,"  said  The 
O'Mahony.  "  I'm  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at 
rememberin'  faces." 

The  woman  smiled. 

"  Molare  !  It's  not  be  me  face  that  anny  bo}^  of 
thirty  years  back  'ud  recognize  me  now,"  she  said, 
as  she  led  the  way  for  the  party  into  the  house. 
"  There  were  thim  that  had  a  dale  of  soft-sawderin' 
words  to  spake  about  it  thin  ;  but  they've  left  off 
this  manny  years  ago." 

"  It's  your  cooking  and  your  fine  housekeeping 
that  we  do  be  praising  now  with  every  breath,  Mrs. 
Sullivan  ;  and  sure  that's  far  more  complimintary  to 
you  than  mere  eulojums  on  skin-deep  beauty,  that's 
here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  and  that  was  none 
o'  your  choosing  at  best,"  said  O'Daly,  as  they 
entered  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 

"  Thrue  for  you,  Cormac  O'Daly,"  the  house- 
keeper responded,  with  twinkling  eyes;  "and  I'm 
thinkin',  if  we'd  all  of  us  the  choosin'  of  new  faces, 
what  an  altered  appearance  you'd  presint,  without 
delay." 

A  bright,  glowing  bank  of  peat  on  the  hearth  filled 
the  room  with  cozy  comfort. 

It  was  a  small,  square  chamber,  roofed  with 
blackened  oak  beams,  and  having  arched  doors  and 
windows.  Its  walls,  partly  of  stone,  partly  of 
plaster  roughly  scratched,  were  whitewashed.  The 
sanded  floor  was  bare,  save  for  a  cowskin  mat 
spread  before  the  fire.  A  high,  black-wood  side- 
board at  one   end   of   the   room,  a  half-dozea   stiff- 


72  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

backed,  uncompromising  looking  chairs,  and  a  table 
in  the  center,  heaped  with  food,  but  without  a  cloth, 
completed  the  inventory  of  visible  furniture. 

Mrs.  O'Sullivan  bustled  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
the  men  together.  The  O'Mahony  sent  a  final 
inquisitive  glance  from  ceiling  to  uncarpeted 
floor. 

"  So  this  is  my  ranch,  eh  ?"  he  said,  taking  off  his 
hat. 

"  Sir,  you're  welcome  to  the  ancesthral  abode  of 
the  O'Mahony's  of  Muirisc,"  answered  O'Daly, 
gravely.  "  The  room  we  stand  in  often  enough 
sheltered  stout  Conagher  O'Mahony,  before  confis- 
cation dhrove  him  forth,  and  the  ruffian  Boyle  came 
in.  'Tis  far  oldher,  sir,  than  Ballydesmond  or  even 
Dunmanus." 

"  So  old,  the  paper  seems  to  have  all  come  off'n 
the  walls,"  said  The  O'Mahony.  "  Well,  we'll  git 
in  a  rocking-chair  or  so  and  a  rag-carpet  and  new 
paper,  an'  spruce  her  up  generally.  I  s'pose  there's 
lots  o'  more  room  in  the  house." 

"  Well,  sir,  rightly  spakin',  there  is  a  dale  more, 
but  it's  mostly  not  used,  by  rayson  of  there  being 
no  roof  overhead.  There's  this  part  of  the  castle 
that's  inhabitable,  and  there's  a  part  of  the  convent 
forninst  the  porch  where  the  nuns  live,  but  there's 
more  of  both,  not  to  mintion  the  church,  that's 
ruined  entirely.  Whatever  your  taste  in  ruins  may 
plase  to  be,  there'll  be  something  here  to  delight 
you.  We  have  thim  that's  a  thousand  3'ears  old, 
and  thim  that's  fallen  into  disuse  since  only  last 
winter.  Anny  kind  3'ou  like  :  Early  Irish,  pray- 
Norman,  posht-Norman,  Elizabethan,  Georgian,  or 


The  O Mahony  s  Home-  Welcome.  j^t 

very  late  Victorian — here  the  ruins  are  for  3011,  the 
natest  and  most  complate  and  convanient  altogether 
to  be  found  in  Munster." 

The  eyes  of  the  antiquarian  bard  sparkled  with 
enthusiasm  as  he  recounted  the  architectural  glories 
of  JMuirisc.  There  was  no  answering  glow  in  the 
glance    of  The  O'Mahony. 

"  I'll  have  a  look  round  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing," he  said,  after  the  men  had  seated  themselves 
at  the  table, 

A  bright-faced,  neatly  clad  girl  divided  with  Mrs. 
O'SuUivan  the  task  of  bringing  the  supper  from 
the  kitchen  beyond  into  the  room  ;  but  it  was 
Malachy,  wearing  now  a  curiously  shapeless  long 
black  coat,  instead  of  his  driver's  jacket,  who  placed 
the  dishes  on  the  table,  and  for  the  rest  stood  in 
silence  behind  his  new  master's  chair. 

The  O'Mahony  grew  speedily  restless  under  the 
consciousness  of  Malachy's  presence  close  at  his 
back. 

"  We  can  git  along  without  him,  can't  we  ?"  he 
asked  O'Daly,  with  a  curt  backward  nod. 

"  Ah,  no,  sir,"  pleaded  the  other.  "  The  boj^  'iid 
be  heart-broken  if  ye  sint  him  awa3^  'Twas  his 
grandfather  waited  on  your  great-uncle's  cousin. 
The  O'Mahony  of  the  Double  Teeth  ;  and  his  father 
always  served  your  cousins  four  times  removed, 
who  aich  in  his  turn  held  the  title ;  and  the  old  man 
sorrowed  himsilf  to  death  whin  the  last  of  'em 
desaysed,  and  3-our  honor  couldn't  be  found,  and 
there  was  no  more  an  O'Mahony  to  wait  upon. 
The  grief  of  that  good  man  wud  'a'  brought  tears  to 
your  eyes.     There   was  no  keeping  him    from  the 


74  The  Rehtm  of  The  O'Mahony. 

dhrink  day  or  night,  sir,  till  he  made  an  ind  to  him- 
silf.  And  young  Malachy,  sir,  he's  composed  of  the 
same  determined  matarial." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  he's  so  much  sot  on  it  as  all 
that,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  relenting.  "  But  I 
wanted  to  feel  free  to  talk  over  affairs  with  you — 
money  matters  and  so  on  ;  and — " 

"  Ah,  sir,  no  fear  about  Malachy.  Not  a  word  of 
what  we  do  be  saying  does  he  comprehind." 

"  Deef  and  dumb,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  he  has  only  the  Irish."  In  answer 
to  O'Mahony's  puzzled  look,  O'Daly  added  in  explan- 
ation :  "  It's  the  glory  of  Muirisc,  sir,  that  we 
hould  fast  be  our  ancient  thraditions  and  tongue. 
In  all  the  place  there's  not  rising  a  dozen  that  could 
spake  to  you  in  English.  And — I  suppose  your 
honor  forgets  the  Irish  entoirely  f*  Or  perhaps  your 
parents  neglected  to  tache  it  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  The  O'Mahony;  "  they  never  taught 
me  any  Irish  at  all ;  leastways,  not  that  I  remember." 

"  Luk  at  that  now  !"  exclaimed  O'Daly,  sadly,  as  he 
took  more  fish  upon  his  plate. 

"  It's  goin'  to  be  pritty  rough  sleddin'  for  me  to 
git  around  if  nobody  understands  what  I  say,  ain't 
it?"  asked  The  O'Mahony,  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  O'Daly  made  brisk  reply.  "  It's 
part  of  my  hereditary  duty  to  accompany  you  on  all 
your  travels  and  explorations  and  incursions,  to  keep 
a  record  of  the  same,  and  properly  celebrate  thim 
in  song  and  history.  The  last  two  O'Mahonys  be- 
twixt ourselves,  did  nothing  but  dhrink  at  the  pig- 
market  at  D  unman  way  once  a  week,  and  dhrink  at 
Mike  Leary's  shebeen  over  at  Ballydivlin   the  re- 


TJie  O MaJionys  Home-Welcome.  75 

mainding  days  of  the  week,  and  dhrink  here  at  home 
on  Sundays.  To  say  the  laste,  this  provided  only 
indifferent  opportunities  for  a  bard.  But  plase  the 
Lord  bether  times  have  come,  now." 

Malachy  had  cleared  the  dishes  from  the  board, 
and  now  brought  forward  a  big  square  decanter,  a 
sugar-bowl,  a  lemon  fresh  cut  in  slices,  three  large 
glasses  and  one  small  one.  O'Daly  at  this  lifted  a 
steaming  copper  kettle  from  the  crane  over  the  fire, 
and  began  in  a  formally  ceremonious  and  deliberate 
manner  the  brewing  of  the  punch.  The  O'Mahony 
watched  the  operation  with  vigilance.  Then  clay 
pipes  and  tobacco  were  produced,  and  Malachy  left 
ihe  room. 

"  What  I  wanted  to  ask  about,"  said  The 
O'Mahony,  after  a  pause,  and  between  sips  from  his 
fragrant  glass,  "  was  this  :  That  lawyer,  Carmod)', 
didn't  seem  to  know  much  about  what  the  estate 
was  worth,  or  how  the  money  came  in,  or  anything 
else.  All  he  had  to  do,  he  said,  was  to  snoop  around 
and  find  out  where  I  was.  All  the  rest  was  in  your 
hands.     What  I  want  to  know  is  jest  where  I  stand." 

"  Well,  sir,  that's  not  hard  to  demonsthrate. 
You're  The  O'Mahony  of  Muirisc.  You  own  in 
freehold  the  best  part  of  this  barony — some  nine 
thousand  acres.  You  have  eight-and-thirty  tinants 
by  lasehold,  at  a  total  rintal  of  close  upon  four  hun- 
dred pounds  ;  turbary  rights  bring  in  rising  twinty 
pounds ;  the  royalty  on  the  carrigeens  bring  ten 
pounds;  )'Our  own  farms,  with  the  pigs,  the  barley, 
the  grazing  and  the  butter,  produce  annually  two 
hundred  pounds — a  total  of  six  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds,  if  I'm  not  mistaken." 


76  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

"  How  much  is  that  in  dolKirs?" 

"About  three  thousand  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  sir." 

"  And  that  comes  in  each  year  ?"  said  The 
O'Mahony,  straightening  himself  in  his  chair. 

"  It  does  that,"  said  O'Daly  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  he 
added  dryly  :  "  and  goes  out  again." 

"  How  d'ye  mean  ?" 

*'  Sir,  the  O'Mahonys  are  a  proud  and  high-minded 
race,  and  must  liv^e  accordingly.  And  aich  of  your 
ancestors,  to  keep  up  his  dignity,  borrowed  as 
much  money  on  the  blessed  land  as  ever  he  could 
raise,  till  the  inthrest  now  ates  up  the  greater  half 
of  the  income.  If  you  net  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year — that  is  to  say,  one  thousand  dollars — ■3'ou're 
doing  very  well  indeed.  In  the  mornin'  I'll  be 
happy  to  show  you  all  me  books  and  Mrs.  Fergus 
O'Mahony." 

"  Who  's  she  ?" 

"  The  sister  of  the  last  of  The  O'Mahonys  before 
you,  sir,  who  married  another  of  the  name  only  dis- 
tantly related,  and  has  been  a  widow  these  five 
years,  and  would  be  owner  of  the  estate  if  her 
brother  had  broken  the  entail  as  he  always  intinded, 
and  never  did  by  ray  son  that  there  was  so  much 
dhrinking  and  sleeping  and  playing  '  forty-five  '  at 
Mike  Leary's  to  be  done,  he'd  no  time  for  lawyers. 
Mrs.  Fergus  has  been  having  the  use  of  the  property 
since  his  death,  sir,  being  the  nearest  visible  heir." 

"And  so  my  comin'  threw  her  out,  eh  ?  Did  she 
take  it  pritty  hard  ?" 

"  Sir,  loyalty  to  The  O'Mahony  is  so  imbedded  in 
the  brest  of  every  sowl  in  Muirisc,  that  if  she  made 


The  OMahonys  Home- Welcome.  ']'} 

a  sign  to  resist  your  pretinsions,  her  own  frinds 
would  have  hooted  her.  She  may  have  some 
riservations  deep  down  in  her  heart,  but  she's  too 
thrue  an  O'Mahon}^  to  re  vale  thim," 

More  punch  was  mixed,  and  The  O'Mahony  was 
about  to  ask  further  questions  concerning  the 
widow  he  had  dispossessed,  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  novel  procession  entered  the  room. 

Three  venerable  women,  all  of  about  the  same 
height,  and  all  clad  in  a  strange  costume  of  black 
gowns  and  sweeping  black  vails,  their  foreheads  and 
chins  covered  with  stiff  bands  of  white  linen,  and 
long  chains  of  beads  ending  in  a  big  silver-gilt  cross 
swinging  from  their  girdles,  advanced  in  single  file 
toward  the  table — then  halted,  and  bowed  slightly. 

O'Dal}^  and  Jerry  had  risen  to  their  feet  upon  the 
instant  of  this  curious  apparition,  but  the  The 
O'Mahony  kept  his  seat,  and  nodded  with  amiabil- 
ity. 

"How  d'  do?"  he  said,  lightly.  "It's  mighty 
neighborly  of  you  to  run  in  like  this,  without 
knockin',  or  standin'  on  ceremony.  Won't  you 
sit  down,  ladies  ?     I  guess    you  can  find  chairs." 

"  These  are  the  Ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears, 
your  honor,"  O'Daly  hastened  to  explain,  at  the 
same  time  energetically  winking  and  motioning  to 
him  to  stand. 

But  The  O'Mahony  did  not  budge. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  assured  the  nuns  once 
more.  "  Take  a  seat,  won't  3^ou  ?  O'Daly  here'll 
mix  you  up  one  o'  these  drinks  o'  his'n,  I'm  sure,  if 
you'll  give  the  word." 

"  We  thank  ^ou,  O'Mahony,"  said  the  foremost  of 


78  The  Return  of  TJic  O Mahoiiy. 

the  aged  women,  in  a  deep,  solemn  voice,  but  pay- 
ing no  heed  to  the  chairs  which  O'Daly  and  Jerry 
had  dragged  forward.  "  We  come  solely  to  do 
obeisance  to  you  as  the  heir  and  successor  of  our 
pious  founder,  Diarmid  of  the  Fine  Steeds,  and 
to  presint  to  you  your  kinswoman — our  present 
pupil,  and  the  solitary  hope  of  our  once  renowned 
order." 

The  O'Mahony  gathered  nothing  of  her  meaning 
from  this  lugubrious  wail  of  words,  and  glanced 
over  the  speaker's  equally  aged  companions  in  vain 
for  any  sign  of  hopefulness,  solitary  or  otherwise. 
Then  he  saw  that  the  hindmost  of  the  nuns  had  pro- 
duced, as  if  from  the  huge  folds  of  her  black  gown, 
a  little  girl  of  six  or  seven,  clad  in  the  same  gloomy 
tint,  whom  she  was  pushing  forward. 

The  child  advanced  timidly  under  pressure,  gaz- 
ing wonderingly  at  The  O'Mahony,  out  of  big, 
heavily  fringed  hazel  eyes.  Her  pale  face  was 
made  almost  chalk-like  by  contrast  with  a  thick 
tangle  of  black  hair,  and  wore  an  expression  of 
apprehensive  shyness  almost  painful  to  behold. 

The  O'Mahony  stretched  out  his  hands  and  smiled, 
but  the  child  hung  back,  and  looked  not  in  the  least 
reassured.  He  asked  her  name  with  an  effort  at 
jovialty. 

"  Kate  O'Mahony,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
bending  her  little  knees  in  a  formal  bob  of  courtesy. 

"  And  are  you  goin'  to  rig  yourself  out  in  those 
long  gowns  and  vails,  too,  when  you  grow  up,  eh, 
siss?"  he  asked. 

"  The  daughters  of  The  Q'Mahonys  of  Muirisc, 
\yith  only  here  and  there  a  thrifling  exception,  havci 


The  O Mahonys  Home-  Welcome.  79 

been  Ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears  since  the  order 
was  founded  here  in  the  year  of  Our  Lord  1191," 
said  the  foremost  nun,  stiffly.  "  After  long  years,  in 
which  it  seemed  as  if  the  order  must  perish,  our 
prayers  were  answered,  and  this  child  of  The 
O'Mahonys  was  sent  to  us,  to  continue  the  vows 
and  obligations  of  the  convent,  and  restore  it,  if  it 
be  the  saints'  will,  to  its  former  glory." 

"  Middlin'  big  job  they've  cut  out  for  you,  eh, 
siss?"  commented  The  O'Mahony,  smilingly. 

The  pleasant  twinkle  in  his  eye  seemed  to  attract 
the  child.  Her  face  lost  something  of  its  scared 
look,  and  she  of  her  own  volition  moved  a  step 
nearer  to  his  outstretched  hands.  Then  he  caught 
her  up  and  seated  her  on  his  knee. 

"  So  you're  goin'  to  sail  in,  eh,  an'  jest  make  the 
old  convent  hum  again  ?  Strikes  me  that's  a  pritty 
chilly  kind  o'  look-out  for  a  little  gal  like  you. 
Wouldn't  3'Ou  now,  honest  Injun,  rather  be 
whoopin'  round  barefoot,  with  a  nann3^-goat,  say, 
an'  some  rag  dolls,  an' — an' — dim  bin'  trees  an' 
huntin'  after  eggs  in  the  hay-mow — than  go  into 
partnership  with  grandma,  here,  in  the  nun  busi- 
ness ?" 

The  O'Mahony  had  trotted  the  child  gentl}-  up 
and  down,  the  while  he  propounded  his  query. 
Perhaps  it  was  its  obscure  phraseology  which 
prompted  her  to  hang  her  head,  and  obstinately 
refuse  to  lift  it  even  when  he  playfully  put  his  finger 
under  her  chin.  She  continued  to  gaze  in  silence  at 
the  floor  ;  but  if  the  nuns  could  have  seen  her  face 
they  would  have  noted  that  presently  its  expression 
lightened  and  its  bi^  eyes  flashed,  as  The  O'Mahony 


8o  The  Rettirn  of  The   OMahony. 

whispered  something  into  her  ear.  The  good 
women  would  have  been  shocked  indeed  could  they 
also  have  heard  that  something. 

"  Now  don't  you  fret  your  gizzard,  siss,"  he  had 
whispered — "  you  needn't  be  a  nun  for  one  solitary 
darned  minute,  if  you  don't  want  to  be." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TWO   MEN   IN  A   BOAT. 

A  fishing-boat  laj^  at  anchor  in  a  cove  of  Dun- 
manus  Bay,  a  hundred  rods  from  shore,  softly  rising 
and  sinking  with  the  swell  of  the  tide  which  stirred 
the  blue  waters  with  all  gentleness  on  this  peaceful 
June  morning.  Two  men  sat  in  lounging  attitudes 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  little  craft,  yawning  lazily  in 
the  sunshine.  They  held  lines  in  their  hands,  but 
their  listless  and  wanderintr  olances  made  it  evident 
that  nothing:  was  further  from  their  thousrhts  than 
the  catching  of  fish. 

The  warm  summer  air  was  so  clear  that  the  ham- 
let of  Muirisc,  whose  gray  walls,  embroidered  with 
glossy  vines,  and  tiny  cottages  white  with  lime-wash 
were  crowded  together  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
shore,  seemed  close  beside  them,  and  every  grunt 
and  squawk  from  sty  or  barn-yard  came  over  the 
lapping  waters  to  them  as  from  a  sounding-board. 
The  village,  engirdled  by  steep,  sheltering  cliffs, 
and  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  made  a  picture  which 
artists  would  have  blessed  their  stars  for.  The  two 
men  in  the  boat  looked  at  it  wearily. 

"  Egor,  it's  rny  belafe,"  said  the  fisher  at  the  bow, 
after  what  seemed  an  age  of  idle  silence,  "  that  the 

[8i] 


82  The  Return  of  The   OMahony. 

fishes  have  all  foUied  the  byes  an'  gerrels,  an'  be- 
taken thimselves  to  Araeriky."  He  pulled  in  his 
line,  and  gazed  with  disgust  at  the  intact  bait. 
"  Luk  at  that,  now  !"  he  continued.  "  There's  a 
male  fit  for  the  holy  Salmon  of  Knowledge  himsilf, 
that  taught  Fin  MacCool  the  spache  of  animals,  and 
divil  a  bite  has  the  manest  shiner  condiscinded  to 
make  at  it." 

"  Oh,  darn  the  fish  !"  replied  the  other,  with  a  long 
sigh.  "  I  don't  care  whether  we  catch  any  or  not. 
It's  worth  while  to  come  out  here  even  if  we  never 
get  a  nibble  and  baked  ourselves  into  bricks,  jest  to 
get  rid  of  that  infernal   O'Dal}-." 

It  was  The  OTvIahony  who  spoke,  and  he  invested 
the  concluding  portion  of  his  remark  with  an  almost 
tearful  earnestness.  During  the  pause  which  en- 
sued he  chewed  vigorously  upon  the  tobacco  in  his 
mouth,  and  spat  into  the  sea  with  a  stern  expression 
of  countenance. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Jerry,"  he  broke  out  with  at 
last — "  1  can't  stand  much  more  of  that  fellow. 
He's  jest  breakin'  me  up  piecemeal.  1  begin  to  feel 
like  Jeff  Davis — that  it  'ud  have  bin  ten  dollars  in 
my  pocket  if  I'd  never  bin  born." 

"  Ah,  sure,  your  honor,"  said  Jerry,  "  ye'll  git 
used  to  it  in  time.      He  manes  for  the  best." 

"  That's  jest  what  makes  me  tired,"  rejoined  The 
O'Mahony  ;  "  that's  what  they  always  said  about  a 
fellow  when  he  makes  a  confounded  nuisance  of 
himself.  I  hate  fellows  that  mean  for  the  best.  I'd 
much  rather  he  meant  as  bad  as  he  knew  how. 
P'raps  then  he'd  shut  up  and  mind  his  own  business, 
and    leave   me  alone    part    of   the    time.     It's    bad 


Tiuo  Me7i  in  a  Boat.  ^2^ 

enough  to  have  your  estate  mortgaged  up  to  the 
eyebrows,  but  to  have  a  bard  piled  oa  top  o'  the 
mortgages — egad,  it's  more'u  flesh  and  blood  can 
stand  !  I  don't  wonder  them  other  O'Mahonys  took 
to  drink." 

"  There's  a  dale  to  be  said  for  the  dhrink,  your 
honor,"  commented  the  other,  tentatively. 

"  There  can  be  as  much  said  as  you  like,"  said 
The  O'Mahony,  with  firmness,  "  but  doin  is  a  hoss 
of  another  color.  I'm  goin'  to  stick  to  the  four 
drinks  a  day  an'  two  at  night  ;  an'  what's  good 
enough  for  me  's  good  enough  for  you.  That  bat  of 
ours  the  first  week  we  come  settled  the  thing.  I 
said  to  myself :  '  There's  goin'  to  be  one  O'lNIahony 
that  dies  sober,  or   I'll  know  the  reason  why  !  '  " 

"  Egor,  Saint  Pether  won't  recognize  j-e,  thin," 
chuckled  Jerry ;  and  the  other  grinned  grimly  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  Do  )'Ou  know  I've  bin  fig'rin'  to  myself  on  that 
convent  business,"  The  O'Mahony  mused  aloud, 
after  a  time, "  an'  I  guess  I've  pritty  well  sized  it  up. 
The  0'iMahon3-s  started  that  thing,  accordin'  to  my 
notion,  jest  to  coop  up  their  sisters  in,  where  board 
and  lodgin'  'ud  come  cheap,  an'  one  suit  o'  clothes 
'ud  last  a  lifetime,  in  order  to  leave  more  money  for 
themselves  for  whisky.  I  ain't  sayin'  the  scheme 
ain't  got  some  points  about  it.  You  bar  out  all 
that  nonsense  about  bonnets  an'  silk  dresses  an' 
beads  an'  fixin's  right  from  the  word  go,  and  you've 
got  'em  safe  under  lock  an'  key,  so  't  they  can't  go 
gallivantin'  round  an'  gittin'  into  scrapes.  But  I'll 
be  dodrotted  if  I'm  goin'  to  set  still  an'  see  'em 
capture  that  little  gal   Katie    agin  her    will.     You 


84  The  Retiuni  of  The  O' Mahony. 

hear  me  /  An'  another  thing,  I'm  goin'  to  put  my 
foot  down  about  goin'  to  church  every  mornin'. 
Once  a  week's  goin'  to  be  my  ticket  right  from 
now.  An'  you  needn't  show  up  any  oftener  )^our- 
self  if  you  don't  want  to.  It's  high  time  we  had  it 
out  whether  it's  me  or  O'Daly  that's  runnin'  this 
show." 

"  Sure,  rightly  spakin',  your  honor's  own  sowl 
wouldn't  want  no  more  than  a  mass  aich  Sunday," 
expounded  Jerry,  concentrating  liis  thoughts  upon 
the  whole  vast  problem  of  dogmatic  theology. 
"  But  this  is  the  throuble  of  it,  you  see,  sir:  there's 
the  sowls  of  all  thim  other  O'Mahonys  that's  gone 
before,  that  the  nuns  do  be  prayin'  for  to  git  out  of 
purgatory,  an' — " 

**  That's  all  right,"  broke  in  The  O'Mahon}^  "  but 
my  motto  is  :  let  every  fellow  hustle  for  himself. 
They're  on  the  spot,  wherever  it  is,  an'  they're  the 
best  judges  of  what  the}'  want ;  an'  if  they  ain't  got 
sand  enough  to  sail  in  an'  git  it,  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  be  routed  up  out  of  bed  every  mornin'  at 
seven  o'clock  to  help  'em.  To  tell  the  truth,  Jerry, 
I'm  gittin'  all-iired  sick  of  these  O'Mahonys.  Tliis 
havin'  dead  men  slung  at  you  from  mornin'  to  night, 
day  in  an'  day  out,  rain  or  shine,  would  have  busted 
up  Job  himself." 

"  I'm  thinking,  sir,"  said  Jerr}-,  with  a  merr}- 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "  there's  no  havin'  annything  in 
this  worruld  without  payin'  for  that  same.  'Tis  the 
pinalty  of  belongin'  to  a  great  family.  Egor,  since 
O'Daly  thranslated  me  into  a  IMacEgan  I've  had  no 
pace  of  me  life,  by  raj'son  of  the  necessity  to 
demane  mesilf  accordin'." 


Two  Men  in  a  Boat  85 

"  Why,  darn  it  all,  man,"  pursued  the  other,  "  I 
can't  do  a  solitary  thing,  any  time  of  day,  without 
O'Daly  luggin'  up  what  some  old  rooster  did  a 
thousand  years  ago.  He  follows  me  round  like  my 
shadow,  blatherin'  about  what  Dermid  of  the  Buck- 
ing Horses  did,  an'  what  Conn  of  the  Army  Mules 
thought  of  doin'  and  didn't,  and  what  Finn  of  the 
Wall-eyed  Pikes  would  have  done  if  he  could,  till 
1  git  sick  at  my  stomach.  He  Avon't  let  me  lift  my 
finger  to  do  an3'thing,  because  The  O'Mahony 
mustn't  sile  his  hands  with  work,  and  1  have  to 
stand  round  and  watch  a  lot  of  bungling  cusses  pre- 
tend to  do  it,  when  they  don't  know  any  more  about 
the  work  than  a  yellow  dog." 

"  Faith,  ye'U  not  get  much  sjmipathy  from  the 
gintry  of  Ireland  on  that  score,"  said  Jerry. 

"  An'  then  that  Malachy — he  gives  me  a  cramp  !  he 
ain't  got  a  grin  in  his  whole  carcass,  an'  he  can't 
understand  a  word  that  I  say,  so  that  O'Daly  has 
that  for  another  excuse  to  hang  around  all  the  while. 
Take  my  steer,  Jerry  ;  if  anybody  leaves  you  an 
estate,  you  jest  inquire  if  there's  a  bard  and  a  hered- 
itary dumb  waiter  that  go  with  it;  an'  if  there  is,  you 
jest  sashay  off  somewhere  else." 

''  Ab,  sir,  but  an  estate's  a  great  thing." 

"  Yes — to  tell  about.  But  now  jest  look  at  the  thing 
as  she  stands.  I'm  the  O'Mahony  an'  all  that,  an'  I 
own  more  land  than  )'Ou  can  shake  a  stick  at;  but 
what  does  it  all  come  to?  Why,  when  the  int'restis 
paid,  I  am  left  so  poor  that  if  churches  was  sellin'  at 
tvvo  cents  apiece,  I  couldn't  bu}-  the  hinge  on  a  contri- 
bution box.     An'  then  it's  downright  mortifyin'  to 


86  The  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

me  to  have  to  git  a  livin'by  takin'  things  away  from 
these  poverty-stricken  devils  here.  I'm  ashamed  to 
look  'em  in  the  face,  knowin'  as  I  do  how  O'Daly 
makes  'em  whack  up  pigs,  an'  geese,  an'  chickens,  an' 
vegetables,  an'  lish,  not  to  mention  all  the  mone}'  they 
can  scrape  together,  just  to  keep  me  in  idleness.  It 
ain't  fair.  Every  time  one  of  'em  comes  in,  to  bring 
me  a  peck  o'  peas,  or  a  pail  o'  butter,  or  a  shillin' 
that  he's  managed  to  earn  somewhere,  I  say  to  my- 
self:  '  Ole  boss,  if  you  was  that  fellow,  and  he  was 
loafin'  round  as  The  O'Mahony,  you'd  jest  lay  for 
him  and  kick  the  whole  top  of  his  head  off,  and  serve 
him  darned  well  right,  too.'  " 

Jerry  looked  at  his  master  now  with  a  prolonged 
and  serious  scrutiny,  greatly  differing  from  his  cus- 
tomary quizzical  glance. 

"  Throo  for  your  honor,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  hes- 
itating way,  as  if  his  remark  disclosed  only  half  his 
thought. 

"  Yes,  sirree,  I'm  sourin'  fast  on  the  hull  thing," 
The  O'Mahony  exclaimed.  "  To  do  nothin'  all  day 
long  but  to  listen  to  O'Daly's  yarns,  an'  make  signs 
at  Malachy,  an'  think  how  long  it  is  between  drinks 
— that  ain't  no  sort  o'  life  for  a  white  man.  Egad! 
if  there  was  any  fightin'  goin'  on  an3Mvhere  in  the 
world,  darn  me  if  I  would  not  pull  up  stakes  an' 
light  out  for  it.  Another  six  months  o'  this,  an*  my 
blood  '11  all  be  turned  to  butter-milk. 

The  distant  apparition  of  a  sailing-vessel  hung 
upon  the  outer  horizon,  the  noon  sun  causing  the 
white  squares  of  canvas  to  glow  like  jewels  upon 
the  satin  sheen  of  the  sea.  Jerry  stole  a  swift  glance 
at  his  companion,  and  then  bent  a  long  meditative 


Two  Men  in  a  Boat.  87 

gaze  upon  the  passing  vessel,  humming  softly  to 
himself  as  he  looked.  At  last  he  turned  to  his  com- 
panion with  an  air  of  decision. 

"  O'Mahon)',"  he  said,  using  the  name  thus  for  the 
first  time,  "  I'm  resolved  in  me  mind  to  disclose 
something  to  ye.  It's  a  sacret  I'm  goin'  to  tell 
you." 

He  spoke  with  impressive  solemnity,  and  the 
other  looked  up  with  interest  awakened. 

"  Go  ahead,"  he  said, 

"  Well,  sir,  3^our  remarks  this  day,  and  what  I've 
seen  wid  me  own  eyes  of  your  demaynor,  makes  it 
plane  that  you're  a  frind  of  Ireland.  Now  there's 
just  wan  M'ay  in  the  worruld  for  a  frind  of  Ireland 
to  demonsthrate  his  affection — and  that's  be  enrollin' 
himsilf  among  thim  that'll  fight  for  her  rights.  Sir, 
I'll  thrust  ye  wid  me  sacret.     I'm  a  Fenian." 

The  O'Mahony's  attentive  face  showed  no  light 
of  comprehension.  The  word  which  Jerry  had 
uttered  with  such  mystery  conveyed  no  meaning  to 
him  at  all  at  first ;  then  he  vaguely  recalled  it  as  a  sort 
of  slang  description  of  Irishmen  in  general,  akin'  to 
"  JSIick  "  and  "  bogtrotter." 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?"  he  asked,  wonderingl3\ 

Jerry's  quick  perception  sounded  at  once  the 
depth  of  his  ignorance. 

"  The  Fenians,  sir,"  he  explained,  "  are  a  great  and 
sacret  society,  wid  tins  of  thousands  of  min  enlisted 
here,  an'  in  Ameriky,  an'  among  the  Irish  in  Eng- 
land, wid  intint  to  rise  up  as  wan  man  whin  the  time 
comes,  an'  free  Ireland.  It's  a  regular  army,  sir, 
that  we're  raisin*,  to  conquer  back  our  liberties,  and 


88  The  Return  of  The   GMahony. 

dhrive  the  bloody  Saxon  foriver  away  from  Erin's 
green  shores." 

The  O'Mahony  let  his  puzzled  gaze  wander  along 
the  beetling  coast-line  of  naked  rocks. 

"  So  far's  I  can  see,  they  ain't  green,"  he  said  ; 
"  they're  black  and  drab.  An'  who's  this  fellow 
you  call  Saxon  ?  I  notice  O'Daly  lugs  him  into 
about  every  other  piece  o'  po'try  he  nails  me  with, 
evenin's." 

"  Sir,  it's  our  term  for  the  Englishman,  who 
oppreases  us,  an'  dhrives  us  to  despair,  an'  prevints 
our  holdin'  our  hieads  up  amongst  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  Sure,  sir,  wasn't  all  this  counthry  round- 
about for  a  three  days'  journey  belongin'  to  your 
ancesthors,  till  the  English  stole  it  and  sold  it  to 
Boyle,  that  thief  of  the  earth — and  his  tomb,  be  the 
same  token,  I've  seen  many  a  time  at  Youghal, 
where  I  was  born.  But — awli,  sir,  what's  the  use 
o'  talkin'?  Sure,  the  blood  o'  the  O'Mahonys  ought 
to  stir  in  your  veins  at  the  mere  suspicion  of  an 
opporchunity  to  sthrike  a  blow  for  your  counthry." 

The  O'Mahony  yawned  and  stretched  his  long 
arms  lazily  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Nary  a  stir,"  he  said,  with  an  idle  half-grin. 
"  But  what  the  deuce  is  it  you're  drivin'  at  anyway  ?" 

"  Sir,  I've  towld  ye  we're  raisin'  an  army — a 
great,  thund'rin'  secret  army — and  whin  it's  raised 
an'  our  min  all  dhrilled  an'  our  guns  an'  pikes  all 
handy — sure,  thin  we'll  rise  and  fight.  An'  it's 
much  mistaken  1  am  in  you,  O'Mahony,  if  you'd  be 
contint  to  lave  this  fun  go  on  undher  your  nose,  an' 
you  to  have  no  hand  in  it." 

•'  Of  course  I  want  to  be  in  it,"  said  The  O'Ma- 


Ttvo  Men  in  a  Boat.  89 

hony,  evincing  more  interest.  "  Onl.y  I  couldn't 
make  head  or  tail  of  what  you  was  talkin'  about. 
An'  I  don't  know  as  I  see  yet  jest  what  the  scheme 
is.  But  you  can  count  me  in  on  anything  that's  got 
gunpowder  in  it,  an'  that'll  give  me  somethin'  to  do 
besides  list'nin'  to  O'Daly's  yawp." 

"  We'll  go  to  Cork  to-morrow,  thin,  if  it's  conva- 
nient  to  you,"  said  Jerry,  eagerly.  "  I'll  spake  to  my 
'  B,*  or  captain,  that  is,  an'  inthroduce  ye,  through 
him,  to  the  chief  organizer  of  Munster,  and  sure, 
they'll  mnk'  3'e  an'  '  A,'  the  same  as  a  colonel,  an' 
I'll  get  promotion  undher  ye — an',  Egor  !  we'll  raise 
a  rigiment  to  oursilves  entirely — an'  Muirisc's  the 
\ery  darlin'  of  a  place  to  land  guns  an'  pikes  an' 
powdher  for  all  Ireland — an'  'tis  we'll  get  the  credit 
of  it,  an'  get  more  promotion  still,  till,  faith,  there'll 
be  nothin'  too  fine  for  our  askin',  an'  we'll  carr}'  the 
whole  blessed  Irish  republic  around  in  our  waist- 
coat pocket.  What  the  divil,  man  !  We'll  make  3'e 
presidint,  an'  I'll  have  a  place  in  the  poliss." 

"  All  right,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  "  we'll  git  all 
the  fun  there  is  out  of  it ;  but  there's  one  thing, 
mind,  that  I'm  jest  dead  set  about." 

"  Ye've  only  to  name  it,  sir,  an'  they'll  be  de- 
loighted  to  plase  ye." 

"  Well,  it's  this:  O'Daly's  got  to  be  ruled  out  o' 
the  thing.  I'm  goin'  to  have  one  deal  without  any 
hereditary  bard  in  it,  or  1  don't  play." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   VOICE   OF   THE    HOSTAGE. 

We  turn  over  now  a  score  of  those  fateful  pages 
on  which  Father  Time  keeps  his  monthly  accounts 
with  mankind,  passing  from  sunlit  June,  with  its 
hazy  radiance  lying  softly  upon  smooth  waters,  to 
bleak  and  shrill  February — the  memorable  February 
of  1867. 

A  gale  had  been  blowing  outside  beyond  the 
headlands  all  day,  and  b}''  nightfall  the  minor  waters 
of  Dunmanus  Bay  had  suffered  such  prolonged  pull- 
ing and  hauling  and  buffeting  from  their  big  Atlantic 
neighbors  that  they  were  up  in  full  revolt,  hurling 
themselves  with  thunderous  roars  of  rage  against 
the  cliffs  of  their  coast  line,  and  drenching  the  dark- 
ness with  scattered  spray.  The  little  hamlet  of 
Muirisc,  which  hung  to  its  low,  nestling  nook  under 
the  rocks  in  the  very  teeth  of  this  blast,  shivered, 
soaked  to  the  skin,  and  crossed  itself  prayerfully  as 
the  wind  shrieked  like  a  banshee  about  its  roofless 
gables  and  tower-walls  and  tore  at  the  thatches  of  its 
clustered  cabins. 

The  three  nuns  of  the  Hostage's  Tears,  listening 

[90] 


The    1^0 ice  of  the  Hostage.  91 

to  the  storm  without,  felt  that  it  afforded  an  addi- 
tional justification  for  the  infraction  of  their  rules 
which  they  were  for  this  evening,  by  no  means  for 
the  first  time,  permitting  themselves.  Religion 
itself  rebelled  against  solitude  on  such  a  night. 

Time  had  been  when  this  convent,  enlarged 
though  it  was  by  the  piety  of  successive  generations 
of  early  lords  of  Muirisc,  still  needed  more  room 
than  it  had  to  accommodate  in  comfort  its  host  of 
inmates.  But  that  time,  alas !  was  now  a  musty 
tradition  of  bygone  ages.  Even  before  the  great 
sectarian  upheaval  of  the  mid-Tudor  period,  the 
ancient  family  order  of  the  Hostage's  Tears  had 
begun  to  decline.  I  can't  pretend  to  give  the 
reason.  Perhaps  the  supply  of  The  O'Mahony's 
daughters  fell  off ;  possibly  some  obscure  shift  of 
fashion  rendered  marriage  more  attractive  in  their 
eyes.  Only  this  I  know,  that  when  the  Commission- 
ers of  Elizabeth,  gleaning  in  the  monastic  stubble 
which  the  scythe  of  Henry  had  laid  bare,  came 
upon  the  nuns  at  Muirisc,  whom  the  first  sweep  of 
the  blade  had  missed,  they  found  them  no  longer  so 
numerous  as  they  once  had  been.  Ever  since  then 
the  order  had  dwindled  visibly.  The  three  remain- 
ing ladies  had,  in  their  own  extended  cloistral 
career,  seen  the  last  habitable  section  of  the  convent 
fall  into  disuse  and  decay,  until  now  only  their  own 
gaunt,  stone-walled  trio  of  cells,  the  school-room, 
the  tiny  chapel,  and  a  chamber  still  known  by  the 
dignified  title  of  the  "  reception  hall,"  were  avail- 
able for  use. 

Here  it  was  that  a  great  mound  of  peat  sparkled 
and     glowed    on    the    hearth,    under  a  capricious 


92  The  Return  of  The   G Mahony. 

draught  which  now  sucked  upward  with  a  whistling 
swoop  whole  clods  of  blazing  turf — now,  by  a  con- 
tradictory freak,  half-filled  the  room  with  choking 
bog-smoke.  Still,  even  when  eyes  were  tingling 
and  nostrils  aflame,  it  was  better  to  be  here  than 
outside,  and  better  to  have  company  than  be  alone. 

Both  propositions  were  shiningly  clear  to  the 
mind  of  Cormac  O'Daly,  as  he  mixed  a  second 
round  of  punch,  and,  peering  through  the  steam 
from  his  glass  at  the  audience  gathered  by  the 
hearth,  began  talking  again.  The  three  aged  nuns, 
who  had  heard  him  talk  ever  since  he  was  born,  sat 
decorously  together  on  a  bench  and  watched  him, 
and  listened  as  attentively  as  if  his  presence  were  a 
complete  novelty.  Their  chaplain,  a  snuffy,  half- 
palsied  little  old  man,  Father  Harrington  to  wit, 
dozed  and  blinked  and  coughed  at  the  smoke  in  his 
chair  by  the  fire  as  harmlessly  as  a  house-cat  on  the 
rug.  Mrs.  Fergus  O'Mahony,  a  plump  and  buxom 
widow  in  the  late  twenties,  with  a  comely,  stupid 
face,  framed  in  little  waves  of  black,  crimped  hair 
pasted  flat  to  the  skin,  sat  opposite  the  priest,  glass 
in  hand.  Whenever  the  temptation  to  yawn  became 
too  strong,  she  repressed  it  by  sipping  at  the  punch. 

"  Anny  student  of  the  ancient  Irish,  or  I  might 
say  Milesian  charachter,"  said  O'Daly,  with  high, 
disputatious  voice,  "  might  discern  in  our  present 
chief  a  remarkable  proof  of  what  the  learned  call  a 
reversion  of  toypes.  It's  thrue  what  you  say. 
Mother  Agnes,  that  he's  unlike  and  teetotally  differ- 
ent from  anny  other  O'Mahony  of  our  knowledge  in 
modhern  times.  But  thin  I  ask  mesilf,  what's  the 
maning  of  this  ?     Clearly,  that  he  harks  back  on  the 


The    J^oice  of  the  Hostage.  93 

ancesthral  tree,  and  resimbles  some  O'Mahony  we 
dont  know  about !  And  this  I've  been  to  the  labor 
of  thracing-  out.  Now  attind  to  me  !  'Tis  in  your 
riccords,  that  four  ginerations  afther  your  foundher, 
Diarmid  of  the  Fine  Steeds,  there  came  an  O'Mahony 
of  Muirisc  called  Teige,  a  turbulent  and  timpistuous 
man,  as  his  name  in  the  chronicles,  Teige  Goarbh, 
would  indicate.  'Tis  well  known  that  he  viawed 
holy  things  with  contimpt.  'Twas  he  that  wint  on 
to  the  very  althar  at  Rossca-rbery,  in  the  chapel  of 
St.  Fachnau  Mougah,  or  the  hairy,  and  cudgeled 
wan  of  the  daycons  out  of  the  place  for  the  rayson 
that  he  stammered  in  his  spache.  'Twas  he  that 
hung  his  bard,  my  ancestor  of  that  period,  up  by  the 
heels  on  a  willow-tree,  merel}"  because  he  fell  asleep 
over  his  punch,  afther  dinner,  and  let  the  rival 
O'Dugan  bard  stale  his  new  harp  from  him,  and 
lave  a  broken  and  disthressful  old  insthrumint  in  its 
place.  Now  there's  the  rale  ancestor  of  our  O'lNIa- 
hon3\  'Tis  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face.  And 
— now  I  remimber — sure  'twas  this  same  divil  of  a 
Teige  Goarbh  who  was  possessed  to  marr}^  his  own 
cousin  wance  removed,  who'd  taken  vows  here  in 
this  blessed  house.  *  Marry  me  now,'  says  he.  '  I'm 
wedded  to  the  Lord,'  says  she.  '  Come  along  out  o' 
that  now,'  says  he.  '  Not  a  step,'  says  she.  And 
thin,  faith,  what  did  the  rebellious  ruffian  do  but 
gather  all  the  straw  and  weeds  and  wet  turf  round 
about,  and  pile  *em  undernayth,  and  smoke  the  nuns 
out  like  a  swarm  o'  bees.  Sure,  that's  as  like  our 
O'Mahony  now  as  two  pays  in  a  pod." 

As  the  little  man  finished,  a  shifty  gust  blew  down 
the  flue,  and  sent  a  darkling  wave  of  smoke  over  the 


94  The  Retzirn  of  The   O Mahony, 

good  people  seated  before  the  fire.  They  were  too 
used  to  the  sensation  to  do  more  than  cough  and 
rub  their  eyes.  The  mother-superior  even  smiled 
sternly  through  the  smoke. 

"  Is  your  maning  that  O'Mahony  is  at  present  on 
the  roof,  striving  to  smoke  us  out?"  she  asked,  with 
iron  clad  sarcasm. 

"  'Awh,  get  along  wid  ye.  Mother  Agnes,"  wheezed 
the  little  priest,  from  his  carboniferous  corner. 
"  Who  would  he  be  arfther  demanding  in  marriage 
here  ?" 

O'Daly  and  the  nuns  looked  at  their  aged  and 
shaky  spiritual  director  with  dulled  apprehension. 
He  spoke  so  rarely,  and  had  a  mind  so  far  removed 
from  the  mere  vanities  and  trickeries  of  decorative 
conversation,  that  his  remark  puzzled  them.  Then, 
as  if  through  a  single  pair  of  e3^es,  they  saw  that 
Mrs.  Fergus  had  straightened  herself  in  her  chair, 
and  was  simpering  and  preening  her  head  weakly, 
like  a  conceited  parrot. 

The  mother-superior  spoke  sharply, 

"  And  do  you  flatther  yoursilf,  Mrs,  Fergus 
O'Mahon}^  that  the  head  of  our  house  is  blowing 
smoke  down  through  the  chimney  for  you?""  she 
asked,  "  Sure,  if  he  was,  thin,  'twould  be  a  lamint- 
able  waste  of  breath.  Wan  puff  from  a  short  poipe 
would  serve  to  captivate  you  f" 

Cormac  O'Daly  made  haste  to  bury  his  nose  in  his 
glass.  Long  acquaintance  with  the  attitude  of  the 
convent  toward  the  marital  tendencies  of  Mrs,  Fer- 
gus had  taught  him  wisdom.  It  was  safe  to  sympa- 
thize with  either  side  of  the  long-standing  dispute 
when  the  other  side  was  unrepresented.     But  when 


The    Voice  of  tJie  Hostage.  95 

the  nuns  and  Mrs.  Fergus  discussed  it  together,  he 
sagaciously  held  his  peace. 

"  Is  it  sour  grapes  you're  tasting,  Agnes 
(3'Mahon3' ?"  put  in  Mrs.  Fergus,  briskly.  In  new 
matters,  hers  could  not  be  described  as  an  alert 
mind.  But  in  this  venerable  quarrel  she  knew  by 
heart  ever_v  retort,  innuendo  and  affront  which 
could  be  used  as  weapons,  and  every  weak  point  in 
the  other's  armor. 

"Sour  grapes!  inc.''''  exclaimed  the  mother-supe- 
rior, with  as  livel}^  an  effect  of  indignation  as  if  this 
rejoinder  had  not  been  fiung  in  her  face  ever}-  month 
or  so  for  the  past  dozen  years.  "  D'ye  harken  to 
that,  Sister  Blanaid  and  Sister  Ann  !  It's  me,  after 
me  wan-and-fifty  years  of  life  in  religion,  that  has 
this  ojus  imputation  put  on  me !  Whisht  now  ! 
don't  demane  yourselves  by  replyin'  !  We'll  lave 
her  to  the  condimnation  of  her  own  conscience." 

The  two  nuns  had  made  no  sig^n  of  breakins:  their 
silence  before  this  admonition  came,  and  they  gazed 
now  at  the  peat  fire  placidly.  But  the  angered 
mother-superior  ostentatiously  took  up  her  beads, 
and  began  whispering  to  herself,  as  if  her  thoughts 
were  already  millions  of  miles  away  from  her  antag- 
onist with  the  crimped  hair  and  the  vacuous  smile. 

'*  It's  persecuting  me  she's  been  these  long  years 
back,"  Mrs.  Fergus  said  to  the  company  at  large, 
but  never  taking  her  eyes  from  the  mother-superior's 
flushed  face;  "and  all  because  I  married  me  poor 
desaysed  husband,  instead  of  taking  me  vows  under 
her." 

"  Ah,  that  poor  desaysed  husband  !"  Mother  Agnes 
put  in,  with  an  ironical  drawl  in  the  words.     "Sure, 


96  The  Return  of    The  O'HJahon). 

whin  he  wasaloive,  me  ears  were  just  worn  out  with 
listening  to  compLaints  about  him  !  Ah,  thin  I  'Tis 
whin  we're  dead  that  we're  appreciated  !" 

"  All  because  I  married,"  pursued  Mrs.  Fergus, 
doggedly,  "and  wouldn't  come  and  lock  mesilf  up 
here,  like  a  toad  in  the  turf,  and  lave  me  brothers 
free  to  spind  the  money  in  riot  and  luxurious  livin'. 
May  be,  if  God's  will  had  putt  a  squint  on  me,  or 
given  me  shoulders  a  twist  like  Danny  at  the  fair, 
or  otherwise  disfigured  me  faytures,  I'd  have  been 
glad  to  take  vows.  Mortial  plainness  is  a  great  in- 
jucement  to  religion." 

The  two  nuns  scuffled  their  feet  on  the  stone  floor 
and  scowled  at  the  fire.  Mother  Agnes  put  down 
her  beads,  and  threw  a  martyr-like  glance  upward 
at  the  blackened  oak  roof. 

"  Praise  be  to  the  saints,"  she  said,  solemnly, 
"  that  denied  us  the  snare  of  mere  beauty  without 
sinse,  or  piety,  or  respect  for  old  age,  or  humility, 
or  politeness,  or  gratitude,  or — " 

"Very  well,  thin,  Agnes  O'Mahony,"  broke  in 
Mrs.  Fergus,  promptly.  "  If  ye've  that  opinion  of 
me,  it's  not  becomin'  that  I  should  lave  me  daughter 
wid  ye  anny  longer.  I'll  take  her  meself  to  Ken- 
mare  next  week — the  ride  over  the  mountains  will 
do  me  nervous  system  a  power  o'  good — and  there 
she'll  learn  to  be  a  lady." 

Cormac  O'Daly  lifted  his  head  and  set  down  his 
glass.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  with  this  fam- 
iliar threat  the  dispute  always  came  to  an  end. 
Indeed,  all  the  parties  to  the  recent  contention  now 
of   their  own  accord   looked  at  him,  and  resettled 


The   Voice  of  the  Hostage.  97 

themselves  in  their  seats,  as  if  to  notify  him  that  his 
turn  had  come  round  again. 

"  I'm  far  from  denying,"  he  said,  as  if  there  had 
been  no  interruption  at  all,  "  that  our  O'jNIahony  is 
possessed  of  qualities  which  commind  him  to  the 
vulgar  multichude.  It's  thrue  that  he  rejewced 
rints  all  over  the  estate,  and  made  turbary  rights 
and  the  carrigeens  as  free  as  wather,  and  yet  more 
than  recouped  himself  by  opening  the  copper  mines 
beyant  Ardmahon,  and  laysing  thim  to  a  company 
for  a  foine  ro3"alty.  It's  thrue  he's  the  first 
O'Mahony  for  manny  a  gineration  who's  paid 
expinses,  let  alone  putting  money  by  in  the  bank." 

"  And  what  more  would  ye  ask  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Fergus.  "  Sure,  whin  he's  done  all  this,  and  made 
fast  frinds  with  every  man,  women  and  child  round- 
about into  the  bargain,  what  more  would  ye  want?" 

"  Ah,  what's  money,  JNIrs.  Fergus  O'Mahony," 
remonstrated  O'Daly,  *' and  what's  popularity  wid 
the  mere  thoughtless  peasanthrj^  if  ye've  no 
ancesthral  proide,  no  love  and  reverence  for  ancient 
family  thraditions,  no  devout  desoire  to  walk  in  the 
paths  your  forefathers  trod  ?" 

"  Faith,  thim  same  forefathers  trod  thim  with  a 
highly  unsteady  step,  thin,  bechune  oursilves," 
commented  Mrs.  Fergus. 

"  But  their  souls  were  filled  with  blessid  piet}'," 
said  Mother  Agnes,  gravel}'.  "  If  they  gave  small 
thought  to  the  matter  of  money,  and  loike  carnal 
disthractions,  they  had  open  hands  always  for  the 
needs  of  the  church,  and  of  the  convint  here,  and 
they  made  holy  indings,  every  soul  of  'em." 


98  The  Return    of  The  O Mahony 

"  And  they  respected  the  hereditary  functions  of 
their  bards,"  put  in  O'Daly,  with  a  conclusive  air. 

At  the  m(3ment,  as  there  came  a  sudden  hill  in  the 
t'.imult  of  the  storm  outside,  those  within  the  recep- 
tion-room heard  a  distinct  noise  of  knocking,  which 
proceeded  from  beneath  the  stone-flags  at  their  feet. 
Three  blows  were  struck,  with  a  deadened  thud  as 
upon  wet  wood,  and  then  the  astounded  listeners 
heard  a  low,  muffled  sound,  strangely  like  a  human 
voice,  from  the  same  depths. 

The  tempest's  furious  screaming  rose  again  with- 
out, even  as  they  listened.  All  six  crossed  them- 
selves mechanically,  and  gazed  at  one  another  with 
blanched  faces. 

"It  is  the  Hostage,"  whispered  the  mother- 
superior,  glancing  impressively  around,  and  striv- 
ing to  dissemble  the  tremor  which  forced  itself 
upon  her  lips.  "  For  wan-and-fifty  3'ears  I've  been 
waiting  to  hear  the  sound  of  him.  My  praydecessor, 
Mother  Ellen,  rest  her  sowl,  heard  him  wance,  and 
nixt  day  the  roof  of  the  church  fell  in.  Be  the 
same  token,  some  new  disasther  is  on  fut  for  us, 
now." 

Cormac  O'Daly  was  as  frightened  as  the  rest,  but, 
as  an  antiquarian,  he  could  not  combat  the  tempta- 
tion to  talk. 

*'  'Tis  now  just  six  hundred  and  seventy  years," 
he  began,  in  a  husky  voice,  "  since  Diarmid  of  the 
Fine  Steeds  founded  this  convint,  in  expiation  of 
his  wrong  to  young  Donal,  Prince  of  Connaught. 
*Twas  the  custom  thin  for  the  kings  and  great 
princes  in  Ireland  to  sind  their  sons  as  hostages  to 
the  palaces  of  their  rivals,  to  live  there  as  security, 


TJic    I'^oice  of  the   Hostage.  99 

so  to  S[)akc,  for  iheir  fathers'  good  beljavior  and 
peaceable  intiiitions.  'Twas  in  this  capacity  that 
young"  Donal  O'Connor  came  here,  but  Diarniid 
tiirated  liini  badl\'— not  like  i:is  father's  son  at  all — 
and  immured  him  in  a  dungeon  convanient  in  the 
rocks.  Mis  mother's  milk  was  in  the  lad,  anrl  he 
wept  for  being  pai-ted  from  her  till  his  tears  filled 
the  earth,  and  a  living  well  sprung  from  thim  the 
day  he  died.  So  thin  Diarmid  repinted,  and  built 
a  convint ;  and  the  well  bubbled  forth  healing 
wathers  so  that  all  the  people  roundabout  made 
pilgrimages  to  it,  and  with  their  offerings  the 
O'Mahonys  built  new  edifices  till  'twas  wan  of  the 
grandest  convints  in  Desmond  ;  and  none  but  fa}'- 
males  of  the  O'iSIahony  blood  saj-ing  pra)^ers  for 
the  sowl  of  the  Hostage." 

The  nuns  were  busy  with  their  beads,  and  even 
Mrs.  Fergus  bent  her  head.  At  last  it  was  Mother 
Agnes  who  spoke,  letting  her  rosar}'  drop. 

"  'Twas  whin  they  allowed  the  holy  well  to  be 
choked  up  and  lost  sight  of  among  fallen  stones  that 
throuble  first  come  to  the  O'Mahonys,"  she  said 
solemnly.  "  'Tis  mesilf  will  beg  The  O'Mahony, 
on  binded  knees,  to  dig  it  open  again.  Worse  luck, 
he's  away  to  Cork  or  Waterford  with  his  boat,  and 
this  storm  '11  keep  him  from  returning,  till,  perhaps, 
the  final  disasther  falls  on  us  and  our  liouse,  and  he 
still  absinting  himsilf.     \Virra  !     What's  that  ?" 

The  mother-superior  had  been  forced  to  lift  her 
voice,  in  concluding,  to  make  it  distinct  above  the 
hoarse  roar  of  the  elements  outside.  Even  as  she 
spoke,  a  loud  crackling  noise  was  heard,  followed  by 


loo  Tlie  Retur7i  of  The  O Alahoiiy. 

a  crash  of    masonry    which  deafened  the   listeners' 
ears  and  shook  the  n-alls  of  the  room  they  sat  in. 

With  a  despairing-  groan,  the  three  nuns  fell  to 
their  knees  and  bowed  their  vailed  heads  over  their 
beads. 


CHAPTER   X. 

HOW   THE   "  HEN   HAWK  "    WAS   BROUGHT   IN. 

The  good  people  of  Muirisc  had  shut  themselves 
up  in  their  cabins,  on  this  inclement  evening  of 
\Yhich  I  have  spoken,  almost  before  the  twilight 
faded  from  the  storm-wrapt  outlines  of  the  opposite 
coast.  If  any  adventurous  spirit  of  them  all  had 
braved  the  blast,  and  stood  out  on  the  cliff  to  see 
night  fall  in  earnest  upon  the  scene,  perhaps  be- 
tween wild  sweeps  of  drenching  and  blinding  spray, 
he  might  have  caught  sight  of  a  little  vessel,  with 
only  its  jib  set,  plunging  and  laboring  in  the  trough 
of  the  Atlantic  outside.  And  if  the  spectacle  had 
met  his  eyes,  unquestionably  his  first  instinct  would 
have  been  to  mutter  a  prayer  for  the  souls  of  the 
doomed  men  upon  this  fated  craft. 

On  board  the  Hen  Haivk  a  good  many  prayers  had 
already  been  said.  The  small  coaster  seemed,  to  its 
terrified  crew,  to  have  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  wal- 
nut shell,  so  wholly  was  it  the  plaything  of  the  giant 
waters  which  heaved  and  tumbled  about  it,  and 
shook  the  air  with  the  riotous  tumult  of  their  sport. 
There  were  moments  when  the  vessel  hung  poised 
and  quivering  upon  the  very  ridge  of  a  huge  moun- 

— -  [lOl] 


I02  The  Return  of  The   GAlahony. 

tain  of  sea,  like  an  Alpine  climber  who  shudders  to 
find  himself  balanced  upon  a  crumbling  foot  of  rock 
between  two  awful  depths  of  precipice  ;  then  would 
come  the  breathless  downward  swoop  into  howlini;" 
space  and  the  fierce  buffeting  of  ton-weight  blows 
as  the  boat  staggered  blindly  at  the  bottom  of  the 
abj'ss;  then  again  the  helpless  upward  sweep,  borne 
upon  the  shoulders  of  titan  waves  which  reared  their 
vast  bulk  into  the  sky,  the  dizzy  trembling  upon  the 
summit,  and  the  hideous  plunge — a  veritable  night- 
mare of  torture  and  despair. 

Five  men  lay  or  knelt  on  deck  huddled  about  the 
mainmast,  clinging  to  its  hoops  and  ropes  for  safety. 
Now  and  again,  when  the  vessel  was  lifted  to  the 
top  of  the  green  walls  of  water,  they  caught  vague 
glimpses  of  the  distant  rocks,  darkling  through  the 
night  mists,  which  sheltered  Muirisc,  their  home — 
and  knew  in  their  souls  that  they  were  never  to  reach 
that  home  alive.  The  time  for  praying  was  past. 
Drenched  to  the  skin,  choked  with  the  salt  spray, 
nearly  frozen  in  the  bitter  winter  cold,  they  clung 
numbly  to  their  hold,  and  awaited  the  end. 

One  of  them  strove  to  gild  the  calamity  with 
cheerfulness,  b}'^  humming  and  groaning  the  air  of  a 
"  come-all-)'e  "  ditty,  the  croon  of  which  rose  with 
quaint  persistency  after  the  crash  of  each  engulfing 
wave  had  passed.  The  others  were,  perhaps, 
silently  grateful  to  him — but  they  felt  that  if  Jerry 
had  been  a  born  ^luirisc  man,  he  could  not  have 
done  it. 

At  the  helm,  soaked  and  gaunt  as  a  water-rat, 
with  his  feet  braced  against  the  waist-rails,  and  the 
rudder-bar  jammed    under    his   arm    and    shoulder, 


The   ''Hen  Hawk'"  brought  in.  103 

was  a  sixtli  man — the  master  and  owner  of  the  Hcii 
Hazvk.  The  strain  upon  his  physical  strength,  in 
thus  by  main  force  holding  the  tiller  right,  had  ioK 
hours  been  unceasing — and  one  could  see  by  his 
dripping  face  that  he  was  deeply  wearied.  But 
sign  of  fear  there  was  none. 

Only  a  man  brought  up  in  the  interior  of  a  coun- 
try, and  who  had  come  to  the  sea  late  in  life,  would 
have  dared  bring  this  tiny  cockle-shell  of  a  coaster 
into  such  waters  upon  such  a  coast.  The  O'Ma- 
hony  might  himself  have  been  frightened  had  he 
known  enough  about  navigation  to  understand  his 
present  danger.  As  it  was,  all  his  weariness  could 
nor  destroy  the  keen  sense  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment he  had  in  the  tremendous  experience.  He 
forgot  crew  and  cargo  and  vessel  itself  in  the  splen- 
did zest  of  this  mad  fight  with  the  sea  and  the 
storm.  He  clung  to  the  tiller  determinedh',  bow- 
ing his  head  to  the  rush  of  the  broken  waves  wdien 
they  fell,  and  bending  knees  and  body  this  way  and 
that  to  answer  the  wild  tossings  and  sidelong  plung- 
ings  of  the  craft — always  Avith  a  light  as  of  battle  in 
his  gray  eyes.  It  was  ever  so  much  better  than 
fighting  with  mere  men. 

The  gloom  of  twilight  ripened  into  pitchy  dark- 
ness, broken  only  by  momentary  gleams  of  that 
strange,  weird  half-light  which  the  rushing  waves 
generate  in  their  own  crests  of  foam.  The  wind 
rose  in  violence  when  the  night  closed  in,  and  the 
vessel's  timbers  creaked  in  added  travail  as  huge 
seas  lifted  and  hurled  her  onward  through  the  black 
chaos  toward  the  rocks.  The  men  by  the  mast 
could  every  few  minutes  discern  the  red  lights  from 


I04  The  RehLvn  of  The   G Alahony. 

the  cottage  windows  of  Muirisc,  and  shuddered 
anew  as  the  glimmering  sparks  grew  nearer. 

Four  of  these  five  unhappy  men  were  Muirisc 
born,  and  knew  the  sea  as  they  knew  their  own 
mothers.  The  marvel  was  that  they  had  not  revolted 
against  this  wanton  sacrifice  of  their  lives  to  the 
whim  Or  perverse  obstinacy  of  an  ignorant  lands- 
man, who  a  year  ago  had  scarcely  known  a  rudder 
from  a  jib-boom.  They  themselves  dimly  wondered 
at  it  now,  as  they  strained  their  eyes  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  fatal  crags  ahead.  The}'^  had  indeed  ventured 
upon  some  mild  remonstrance,  earlier  in  the  day, 
while  it  had  still  been  possible  to  set  the  mainsail, 
and  by  long  tacks  turn  the  vessel's  course.  But 
The  O'Mahony  had  received  their  suggestion  with 
such  short  temper  and  so  stern  a  refusal,  that  there 
had  been  nothing  more  to  be  said — bound  to  him  as 
Muirisc  men  to  their  chief,  and  as  Fenians  to  their 
leader,  as  they  were.  And  soon  thereafter  it  became 
too  late  to  do  aught  but  scud  bare-poled  before  the 
gale  ;  and  now  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  die. 

They  could  hear  at  last,  above  the  shrill  clamor 
of  wind  and  rolling  waves,  the  sullen  roar  of  break- 
ers smashing  against  the  cliffs.  The}^  braced  them- 
selves for  the  great  final  crash,  and  muttered  frag- 
ments of  the  Litany  of  the  Saints  between  clenched 
teeth. 

A  prodigious  sea  grasped  the  vessel  and  lifted  it 
to  a  towering  height,  where  for  an  instant  it  hung 
trembling.  Then  with  a  leap  it  made  a  sickening 
dive  down,  down,  till  it  was  fairly  engulfed  in  the 
whirling  floods  which  caught  it  and  swept  wildly 
over  its  decks.     A  sinister  thrill   ran  through  the 


The  ''Hen  Haiuk''  brought  in,  105 

stout  craft's  timbers,  and  upon  the  instant  came  the 
harsh  grinding  sound  of  its  keel  against  the  rocks. 
The  men  shut  their  eyes. 

A  dreadful  second— and  lo  !  the  Hen  Ilmvk,  shak- 
ing herself  buoyantly  like  a  fisher-fowl  emerging 
after  a  plunge,  floated  upon  gently  rocking  waters 
— with  the  hoarse  tumult  of  storm  and  breakers 
comfortably 'behind  her,  and  at  her  sides  only  the 
sighing-harp  music  of  the  wind  in  the  sea-reeds. 

"Hustle  now,  an'  git  out  your  anchor!"  called 
out  the  cheerful  voice  of  The  O'Mahony,  from  the 
tiller. 

The  men  scrambled  from  their  knees  as  in  a 
dream.  Thej^  ran  out  the  chain,  reefed  the  jib,  and 
then  made  their  way  over  the  fiush  deck  aft,  slap- 
ping their  arms  for  warmth,  still  only  vaguely  real- 
izing that  they  were  actually  moored  in  safety, 
inside  the  sheltered  salt-water  marsh,  or  muirisc, 
which  gave  their  home  its  name. 

This  so-called  swamp  was  at  high  tide,  in  truth,  a 
ver}^  respectable  inlet,  which  lay  between  the 
tongue  of  arable  land  on  which  the  hamlet  was 
built  and  the  high  jutting  cliffs  of  the  coast  to  the 
south.  Its  entrance,  a  stretch  of  water  some  forty 
yards  in  width,  was  over  a  bar  of  rock  which  at  low 
tide  could  only  be  passed  by  row-boats.  At  its 
greatest  daily  depth,  there  was  not  much  water  to 
spare  under  the  fort3--five  tons  of  the  Heii  Hazvk. 
She  had  been  steered  now  in  utter  darkness,  with 
only  the  scattered  and  confusing  lights  of  the 
houses  to  the  left  for  guidance,  unerringly  upon  the 
bar,  and  then  literally  lifted  and  tossed  over  it  by 
the  great   rolling    wall    of  breakers.     She    lay  nov/ 


io6         The  Rehirn  of  The  O Mahony. 

tossing  languidly  on  the  choppy  .vaters  of  the 
marsh,  as  if  breathing  hard  after  undue  exertion — 
secure  at  last  behind  the  cliffs. 

The  O'Mahony  slapped  his  arms  in  turn,  and 
looked  about  him.  He  was  not  in  the  least  conscious 
of  having  performed  a  feat  which  any  yachtsman  in 
British  waters  would  regard  as  incredible. 

"  Now,  Jerry,"  he  said,  calmly,  "  you  git  ashore 
and  bring  out  the  boat.  You  other  fellows  open 
the  hatchway,  an'  be  gittin*  the  things  out.  Be 
careful  about  your  candle  down-stairs.  You  know 
why.  It  won't  do  to  have  a  light  up  here  on  deck. 
Some  of  the  women  might  happen  to  come  out-doors 
an'  see  us." 

Without  a  word,  the  crew,  even  yet  dazed  at  their 
miraculous  escape,  proceeded  to  carry  out  his 
orders.  The  O'Mahony  bit  from  his  plug  a  fresh 
mouthful  of  tobacco,  and  munched  it  meditatively, 
walking  up  and  down  the  deck  in  the  darkness,  and 
listening  to  the  high  wind  howling  overhead. 

The  Hen  Haivk  had  really  been  built  at  Barn- 
stable, a  dozen  years  before,  for  the  Devon  fisheries, 
but  she  did  not  look  unlike  those  unwieldy  Dutch 
boats  which  curious  summer  visitors  watch  with 
unfailing  interest  from  the  soft  sands  of  Schevenin- 
gen.  Her  full-flushed  deck  had  been  an  after- 
thought, dating  back  to  the  time  when  her  activities 
were  diverted  from  the  fishing  to  the  carrying 
industry.  The  O' Mahony  had  bought  her  at  Cork, 
ostensibly  for  use  in  the  lobster-canning  enterprise 
which  he  had  founded  at  Muirisc.  Duck-breasted, 
squat  and  thick-lined,  she  looked  the  part  to  per- 
fection, 


Tke  "  Hen  Hawk  "  brought  in.  107 

Tl'ie  men  were  busy  now  getting  (ujt  from  the 
hokl  below  a  score  of  small  kegs,  each  wrappefl  in 
oil  skin  swathings,  and,  after  these,  nioie  than  a 
score  of  long,  narrow  wooden  cases,  which,  as  they 
were  passed  up  the  little  gangway  from  the  glow  oi 
candlelight  into  the  darkness,  bore  a  gloomy  resem- 
blance to  coffins.  An  hour  passed  before  the  empt}^ 
boat  returned  from  shore,  having  landed  its  finishing 
load,  and  the  six  men,  stiff  and  chilled,  clumsily 
swung  themselves  over  the  side  of  the  vessel  into  it. 

"  Sure,  it's  a  new  layse  of  life,  I'm  beginnin','* 
murmured  one  of  them,  Dominic  by  name,  as  he 
clambered  out  upon  the  stone  landing-place.  "  It's 
dead  I  was  intoirely — an'  resiiricted  agin,  glory  be 
to  the  Lord  !" 

"  Sh-h !  You  shall  have  some  whisky  to  make  a 
fresh  start  on  when  we're  through,"  said  The 
O'Mahony.  "Jerry,  you  run  ahead  an'  open  the 
side  door.  Don't  make  any  noise.  Mrs.  Sullivan's 
got  ears  that  can  hear  grass  growin'.  We'll  follow 
on  with  the  things." 

The  carrying  of  the  kegs  and  boxes  across  the 
village  common  to  the  castle,  in  which  the  master 
bore  his  full  share  of  work,  consumed  nearly  another 
hour.  Some  of  the  cottage  lights  ceased  to  burn. 
Not  a  soul  stirred  out  of  doors. 

The  entrance  opened  by  Jerry  was  a  little  postern 
door,  access  to  which  was  gained  through  the  de- 
serted and  weed-grown  church-yard,  and  the  possi- 
ble use  of  which  was  entirely  unsuspected  by  even 
tlie  housekeeper,  let  alone  the  villagers  at  large. 
The  men  bore  their  burdens  through  this,  travers- 
ing a  long,  low-arched  passage-way,  built  entirely 


io8  Tiic  Rciicni  of  The   O' Jlakoiiy. 

of  stone  and  smelling  like  an  ancient  tomb.  Thence 
their  course  was  down  a  precipitous,  narrow  stair- 
way, winding  like  the  corkscrew  stairs  of  a  tower, 
until,  at  a  depth  of  thirty  feet  or  more,  they  reached 
a  small  square  chamber,  the  air  of  which  was  musti- 
ness  itself.  Here  a  candle  was  fastened  in  a  bracket, 
and  the  men  put  down  their  loads.  Here,  too,  it 
was  that  Jerry,  when  the  last  journey  had  been 
made,  produced  a  bottle  and  glasses  and  dispensed 
his  master's  hospitality  in  raw  spirits,  which  the 
men  gulped  down  without  a  whisper  about  water. 

"  Mind  ! — day  after  to-morrow  ;  five  o'clock  in  the 
m.orning,  sharp !"  said  The  O'Mahony,  in  admonitory 
tones.  Then  he  added,  more  softly:  "Jest  take  it 
easy  to-morrow  ;  loaf  around  to  suit  yourselves,  so 
long's  you  keep  sober.  You've  had  a  pritty  tough 
day  of  ito  Good-night.  Jerry  'n  me  '11  do  the  rest. 
Jest  pull  the  duor  to  when  you  go  out." 

With  answering  "  Good  nights,"  and  a  formal 
hand-shake  all  around,  the  four  villagers  left  the 
room.  Their  tired  footsteps  were  heard  with 
diminishing  distinctness  as  they  went  up  the  stairs. 

Jerry  turned  and  surveyed  his  master  from  head 
to  foot  by  the  light  of  the  candle  on  the  wall. 

"O'Mahony,"  he  said,  impressivel}-,  "you're  a 
divil,  an'  no  mistake  !" 

The  other  put  the  bottle  to  his  mouth  first.  Then 
he  licked  his  lips  and  chuckled  grimly. 

"  Them  fellows  was  scared  out  of  their  boots, 
wasn't  the}''  ?     An'  you,  too,  eh  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  sir,  you  know  it  as  well  as  I,  the  lives  of 
the  lot  of  us  would  have  been  high-priced  at  a 
thruppenny-bit." 


The   ''Hen    Ilaz^k^'  brongJit  in.  109 

"  Pshaw,  man  !  You  fellows  don't  know  what  fun 
is.  Wh}^  she  was  safe  as  a  house  ever}^  minute. 
An'  lierc  I  was,  goin'  to  compliment  you  on  gittin' 
through  the  hull  voyage  without  bein'  sick  once — 
thought,  at  last,  I  was  reall}-  goin'  to  make  a  sailor 
of  you." 

"  Egor,  afther  to-day  I'll  believe  I've  the  makin' 
of  aimything  under  the  sun  in  me — or  on  top  of  it, 
ayther.  But,  sure,  sir,  you'll  not  deny  'twas  timp- 
tin'  providence  saints'  good-will  to  come  in  head 
over  heels  under  wather,  the  way  we  did  ?" 

"We  had  to  be  here — that's  all,"  said  The 
O'Mahony,  briefl}'.  "  I've  got  to  meet  a  man  to- 
morrow, at  a  place  some  distance  from  here,  sure 
pop  ;  and  then  there's  the  big  job  on  next  daj-." 

Jerry  said  no  more,  and  The  O'iNIahony  took  the 
candle  down  from  the  iron  ring  in  the  wall. 

"  D'ye  know,  I  noticed  somethin'  cur'ous  in  the 
wall  out  on  the  staircase  here  as  we  come  down?" 
he  said,  bearing  the  light  before  him  as  he  m.oved  to 
the  door.  "  It's  about  a  dozen  sreps  up.  llcreitis! 
What  d'ye  guess  that  might  a-been  ?" 

The  O'Mahony  held  the  candle  close  to  the 
curved  wall,  and  indicated  with  his  irce  hand  a 
couple  of  regular  and  vertical  seams  in  the  masonrv, 
about  two  Icet  apart,  and  nearly  a  man's  height  in 
length. 

"  There's  a  door  there,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman,"  he 
saiLl,  lilting  and  lowering  the  ligh.t  in  his  scrutiny. 

The  mediaeval  builders  cou'd  have  imagined  no 
sight  more  weird  than  that  of  the  high,  fantastic 
shadows  thrown  upon  the  winding,  well-like  walls 
by  this  drenched   and  saturnine  figure,  clad   in  oil- 


iio  TJic  Rehirii  of  The   O Mahony. 

skins  instead  of  armor,  and  peering  into  their  handi- 
work with  the  curiosity  of  a  man  nurtured  in  a 
log-cabin. 

"  Egor,  would  it  be  a  dure  ?"  exclaimed  the  won- 
dering Jerry. 

His  companion  handed  the  candle  to  him,  and 
took  from  his  pocket  a  big  jack-knife — larger,  if  an}-- 
thing,  than  the  weapon  which  had  been  left  under 
the  window  of  the  little  farm-house  at  Five  Forks. 
He  ran  the  large  blade  up  and  down  the  two  long, 
straight  cracks,  tapping  the  stonework  hei^e  and 
there  with  the  butt  of  the  handle  afterward. 
Finally,  after  numerous  experiments,  he  found  the 
trick — a  bolt  to  be  pushed  down  by  a  blade  inserted 
not  straight  but  obliquely — and  a  thick,  iron-bound 
door,  faced  with  masonr}^  but  with  an  oaken  lining, 
swung  open,  heavily  and  unevenlv,  upon  some  con- 
cealed pivots. 

The  O'jNIahony  took  the  ligiit  once  more,  thrust 
it  forward  to  make  sure  of  his  footing,  and  then 
stepped  over  the  newly-discovered  threshold,  Jerry 
close  at  his  heels.  They  pushed  their  way  along  a 
narrow  and  evil-smelling  passage,  so  low  that  thc}^ 
were  forced  to  bend  almost  double.  Suddenh',  after 
traversing  this  for  a  long  distance,  their  path  was 
blocked  by  another  door,  somewhat  smaller  than  the 
other.  This  gave  forth  a  hollow  sound  when  tested 
by  blows. 

"  It  ain't  very  thick,"  said  The  O'Mahony.  *'  I'll 
put  my  shoulder  against  it.  I  guess  I  can  bust  her 
open." 

The  resistance  was  even  less  than  he  had  antici- 
pated.    One  energetic  shove  sufficed  ;  the  door  Hew 


TJie  "  Hen  Hawk  "   bro7tght  in.  1 1 1 


back  with  a  swift  splintering  of  rotten  wood.  The 
O'Mahony  went  stumbling  sidelong  into  the  dark- 
ness as  the  door  gave  way.  At  the  nunnent  a 
strange,  rumbling  sound  was  iieard  at  some  remote 
height  above  them,  and  then  a  crash  nearer  at  hand, 
the  thundering  reverberation  of  which  rang  witli 
loud  echoes  through  the  vault-like  passage.  The 
concussion  almost  put  out  the  candle,  and  Jerry 
noted  that  the  hand  which  he  instinctively  put  out 
to  shield  the  flame  was  trembling. 

"  Show  a  light  in  here,  can't  ye  ?"  called  out  The 
O'Mahony  from  the  black  obscurity  beyond  the 
broken  door.  "  Sounds  as  if  the  hull  darned  castle 
'd  been  blown  down  over  our  heads." 

Jerry  timorously  advanced,  candle  well  out  in 
front  of  him.  Its  small  radiance  served  dimly  to 
disclose  what  seemed  to  be  a  large  chamber,  or 
even  hall,  high-roofed  and  spacious.  Its  floor  of 
stone  flags  was  covered  with  dry  mold.  The  walls 
were  smoothed  over  with  a  gray  coat  of  plastering, 
whole  patches  of  which  had  here  and  there  fallen, 
and  more  of  which  tumbled  even  now  as  they 
looked.  They  saw  that  this  plastering  had  been 
decorated  by  zigzag,  saw-toothed  lines  in  three  or 
four  colors,  now  dulled  and  in  places  scarcely  dis- 
cernible. The  room  was  irregularly  shaped.  At 
its  narrower  end  was  a  big,  roughly  built  fireplace, 
on  the  hearth  of  which  lay  ashes  and  some  charred 
bits  of  wood,  covered,  like  the  stone  itself,  by  a  dry 
film  of  mold.  The  O'Mahony  held  the  candle  under 
the  flue.  The  wa}'  in  which  the  flame  swayed  and 
pointed  itself  showed  that  the  chimney  was  open. 

Cooking  utensils,  some  of  metal,  some  of  pottery, 


1 1 2  The  Retit7'ii  of  The   O'MaJwny. 

but  all  alike  of  strange  form,  were  bestowed  on  the 
floor  on  either  side  of  the  hearlli.  There  was  a 
single  wooden  chair,  with  a  high,  pointed  back, 
standing  against  the  wall,  and  in  front  of  this  lay  a 
rug  of  cowskin,  the  reddish  hair  of  which  came  oft 
at  the  touch.  Beside  this  chair  was  a  low,  oblong 
wooden  chest,  with  a  lifting-lid  curiously  carved, 
and  apparently  containing  nothing  but  rolls  of 
parchment  and  leather-bound  volumes. 

At  the  other  and  wider  end  of  the  room  was  an 
archway  built  in  the  stone,  and  curtained  by  hang- 
ings of  thick,  mildewed  cloth.  The  O'Mahony 
drew  these  aside,  and  Jerry  advanced  with  the 
light. 

In  a  little  recess,  and  reaching  from  side  to  side  of 
the  arched  walls,  was  built  a  bed  of  oaken  beams, 
its  top  the  height  o(  a  man's  middle.  Withered  and 
faded  straw  lay  piled  on  the  wood,  and  above  this 
both  thick  cloth  similar  to  the  curtains  and  finer 
fabrics  wliich  looked  like  silk.  The  candle  shook 
in  Jerry's  hand,  and  came  near  to  falling,  at  the  dis- 
covery which  followed. 

On  the  bed  lay  stretched  the  body  of  a  bearded 
and  tonsured  man,  clad  in  a  long,  heav}^  dark  wool- 
en gown,  girt  at  the  waist  with  a  leathern  thong — 
as  strangel}''  dried  and  mummified  as  are  the  dead 
preserved  in  St.  JNIichan's  vaults  at  Dublin  or  in  the 
Bleikeller  of  the  Dom  at  Bremen.  The  shriveled, 
tan-colored  face  bore  a  weird  resemblance  to  that 
of  the  hereditary  bard. 

The  O'lMahony  looked  wonderingl}-  down  upon 
this  grim  spectacle,  the  vrhile  Jerry  crossed  him- 
self. 


The  ''Hen  Hawk''  bro2igJit  in.  113 

"  Guess  there  won't  be  much  use  of  callin'  a  doc- 
tor for  hii;i,"  said  the  master,  at  last. 

Then  he  backed  away,  to  let  the  curtains  fall,  and 
yawned. 

"  I'm  about  tuckered  out,"  he  said,  stretching  his 
arms.  "Let's  go  up  now  an'  take  somethin'  warm, 
and  git  to  bed.  We'll  keep  mum  about  this  place. 
P'rhaps — 1  shouldn't  wonder — it  might  come  in 
handy  for  O'Daly." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A   FACE   FROM    OUT   THE   WINDING-SHEET. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  in  a  clear  sky  next 
morning,  when  the  people  of  Muirisc  finally  got  up 
out  of  bed,  and,  still  rubbing  their  eyes,  strolled 
forth  to  note  the  ravages  of  last  night's  storm,  and 
talk  with  one  another  about  it. 

There  was  much  to  marvel  at  and  discuss  at 
length  in  garruh^us  groups  before  the  cottage 
doors.  One  whole  wing  of  the  ancient  convent 
structure — that  which  tradition  ascribed  to  the 
pious  building  fervor  of  Cathal  an  Dioniuis,  or  "the 
Haughty " — had  been  thrown  down  during  the 
night,  and  lay  now  a  tumbled  mass  of  stones  and 
timber  piled  in  wild  disorder  upon  the  debris  of 
previous  ruins.  But  inasmuch  as  the  fallen  build- 
ing had  long  been  roofless  and  disused,  and  its 
collapse  meant  only  another  added  la3-er  of  chaos 
in  the  deserted  convent-yard,  Muirisc  did  not  woi'ry 
its  head  much  about  it,  and  even  yawned  in  Cormac 
O'Daly's  face  as  he  wandered  from  one  knot  of 
gossips  to  another,  relating  legends  about  Cathal 
the  Proud. 

What  interested  them  considerably  more  was  the 
report,  confirmed  now  by  O'Daly  himself,  that  just 

[I14l 


A   Face  fj'ovi  the    Windiiig-Sheet.        1 1 5 

before  the  crash  came,  six  people  iii  the  reception 
hall  of  the  convent  had  distinctly  heard  the  voice 
of  the  Hostage  from  the  depths  below  the  cloistral 
building.  Ever3'body  in  Muirisc  knew  all  about  the 
Hostage.  The}'  had  been,  so  to  speak,  brought  up 
with  him.  Prolonged  familiarity  with  the  pathetic 
stoi-y  of  his  death  in  exile,  here  at  Muirisc,  and  con- 
stant contact  with  his  name  as  perpetuated  in  the 
title  of  their  unique  convent,  made  him  a  sort  of 
oldest  inhabitant  of  the  place.  Their  lively  imagin- 
ations now  quickly  built  up  and  established  the 
belief  that  he  was  heard  to  complain,  somewhere 
under  the  convent,  once  ever}'  fifty  years.  Old 
Ellen  Dumphy  was  able  to  fix  the  period  with 
exactness  because  when  the  mysterious  sound  was 
last  heard  she  was  a  young  woman,  and  had  her 
face  bound  up,  and  was  almost  "  disthracted  wid 
the  sore  teeth." 

But  most  interesting  of  all  was  the  fact  that  there, 
before  their  eyes,  riding  easily  upon  the  waters  of 
the  Muirisc,  lay  the  Hen  Hazvk,  as  peacefully  and 
safely  at  anchor  as  if  no  gale  had  ever  thundered 
upon  the  clifTs  outside.  The  four  men  of  her  crew, 
when  they  made  their  belated  appearance  in  the 
morning  sunlight  out-of-doors,  were  eagerly  ques- 
tioned, and  they  told  with  great  readiness  and  a 
flowering  wealth  of  adjectives  the  marvelous  story 
of  how  The  O'Mahony  aimed  her  in  pitch  darkness 
at  the  bar,  and  hurled  her  over  it  at  precisely  the 
psychological  moment,  with  just  the  merest  scra- 
ping of  her  keel.  To  the  seafaring  senses  of  those 
vvho  stood  now  gazing  at  the  vessel  there  was  more 


li6  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

witchcraft  in  this  than  in  the  subterranean  voice  oi 
the  Hostage  even. 

"  Ah,  thin,  'tis  our  O'Mahon}'  's  the  grand  divil  of 
a  man  !"  they  murmured,  admiringl}'. 

No  work  was  to  be  expected,  clearl}-,  on  the  day 
after  such  an  achievement  as  this.  The  villagers 
stood  about,  and  looked  at  the  squat  coaster,  snugly 
raising  and  sinking  with  the  laz}^  movement  of  the 
tide,  and  watched  for  the  master  of  Muirisc  to  show 
himself.  They  had  never  before  been  conscious  of 
such  perfect  pride  in  and  affection  for  this  strange 
Americanized  chieftain  of  theirs.  By  an  unerring 
factional  instinct,  they  felt  that  this  apotheosis  of 
The  O'Mahony  in  their  hearts  involved  the  discom- 
fiture of  O'Daly  and  the  nuns,  and  they  let  the 
hereditary  bard  feel  it,  too. 

"  Ah,  now,  Cormac  O'Daly,"  one  of  the  women 
called  out  to  the  poet,  as  he  hung,  black-visaged  and 
dejected,  upon  the  skirts  of  the  group,  "  tell  me 
man,  was  it  anny  of  yer  owld  Diarmids  and  Cathals 
ye  do  be  perplexin'  us  wid  that  wud  a-steered  that 
boat  beyond  over  the  bar  at  black  midnight,  wid  a 
gale  outside  fit  to  blow  mountains  into  the  say? 
Sure,  it's  not  botherin'  his  head  wid  books,  or 
delutherin'  his  moind  wid  ancestral  mummeries,  or 
wear3'in'  the  bones  an'  marrow  out  of  the  saints  wid 
attendin'  their  business  instead  of  his  own,  that  o?ir 
O'jNIahony  do  be  after  practicin'." 

The  bard  opened  his  lips  to  reply.  Then  the 
gleam  of  enjo3-ment  in  the  woman's  words  which 
shone  from  all  the  faces  roundabout,  dismayed  him. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  walked  awa}'  in  silence. 

Meanwhile   The  O'Mahony,  after  a  comfortable 


A  Face  front  the    ]Vindiug-Shect.        1 1  7 

breakfast,  and  a  brief  consultation  \vi':h  Jcir}-,  had 
put  on  iiis  hat  and  strolled  out  tlirou[^!i  the  preten- 
tious arched  doorway  of  liis  tumble-dcjwn  abode. 
From  the  outer  gate  he  saw  the  clustered  villagers 
upon  the  wharf,  and  guessed  what  they  \vere  saying 
and  thinking  about  him  and  his  boat.  He  smiled 
contentedly  to  himself,  and  lighted  a  cigar.  Then, 
sucking  this  with  gravity,  hands  in  pockets  and  hat 
well  back  on  head,  he  turned  and  sauntered  across 
the  turreted  corner  of  his  castle  into  the  ancient 
church-3-ard,  which  lay  between  it  and  the  convent. 
The  place  was  one  crowded  area  of  mortuary  wreck- 
age— flat  tombstones  sunken  deep  into  the  earth  ; 
monumental  tablets,  once  erect,  now  tipping  at  every 
crazy  angle  ;  pre-historic,  weather-beaten  runic 
crosses  lying  broken  and  prone ;  more  modern  and 
ambitious  sarcophagi  of  brick  and  stone,  from  which 
sides  or  ends  had  fallen  away,  revealing  to  every  eye 
their  ghostly  contents;  the  ground  covered  thickly 
with  nettles  and  umbrageous  weeds,  under  which 
the  iinguided  foot  continually  encountered  old  skulls 
and  human  bones — a  grave-yard  such  as  can  be  seen 
nowhere  in  the  world  save  in  western  Ireland. 

The  O'Mahony  picked  his  wa}'  across  this  village 
Golgotha,  past  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  church,  and 
into  the  grounds  to  the  rear  of  the  convent  build- 
ings, clambering  as  he  went  over  u'hole  series  of 
tumbled  masonry  heaped  in  weed-grown  i  idgcs, 
until  he  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  havoc  wrought 
by  this  latest  storm. 

No  rapt  antiquary  ever  gazed  with  more  eager- 
ness upon  the  remains  of  a  pre-Aryan  habitation 
than  The  O'Mahony  now  displayed  in  his  scrutiny 


Ii8  The  Return  of  The   O JMaJiony. 

of  the  destruction  worked  by  last  night's  storni,  and 
of  the  g-roup  of  buildings  its  fury  had  left  unscathed. 
He  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  compared  a 
rude  drawing  upon  it  with  various  points  in  the 
architecture  about  him  which  he  indicated  with  nods 
of  the  head.  People  watching  him  might  have  dif- 
fered as  to  whether  he  was  a  student  of  antiquities, 
a  builder  or  an  insurance  agent.  Probably  none 
would  have  guessed  that  he  was  striving  to  identify 
some  one  of  the  numerous  chimneys  before  him 
with  a  certain  fireplace  which  he  knew  of,  five-and- 
twenty  feet  underground. 

As  he  stood  thus,  absorbed  in  calculation,  he  felt 
a  little  hand  steal  into  his  big  palm,  and  nestle  there 
confidingly.  His  face  put  on  a  pleased  smile,  even 
before  he  bent  it  toward  the  intruder. 

"  Hello,  Skeezucks,  is  that  you  ?"  he  said,  gently. 
"  Well,  they've  gone  an'  busted  yourole  convent  up 
the  back,  here,  in  great  shape,  ain't  they  ?" 

Every  one  of  the  score  of  months  that  had  passed 
since  these  two  first  met,  seemed  to  have  added 
something  to  the  stature  of  little  Kate  O'Mahony. 
She  had  grown,  in  truth,  to  be  a  tall  girl  for  her  age 
— and  an  erect  girl,  holding  her  head  well  in  air, 
into  the  bargain.  Her  face  had  lost  its  old  shy, 
scared  look — at  least  in  this  particular  company.  It 
was  filling  out  into  the  likeness  of  a  pretty  face,  with 
a  pleasant  glow  of  health  upon  the  cheeks,  and  a 
happy  twinkle  in  the  big,  dark  eyes. 

For  ans\s'er,  the  child  lifted  and  swung  his  hand, 
and  playfully  butted  her  head  sidewise  against  his 
waist. 

*'  'Tis  I  that  wouldn't  mind  if  it  all  came  down,"  she 


li 


A  Face  froin  the    Wijidiug-Sheet.        119 

said,  in  the  softest  West   Carbery  brogue    the    c;ir 
could  wish. 

"  What!"  exclaimed  the  other,  in  inock  consterna- 
tion. "Well,  I  never!  Why,  here's  a  gal  thrM 
don't  want  to  go  to  school,  or  learn  now  to  read  a:.' 
cipher  or  nothin'!  P'r'aps  you'd  ruther  work  in  tlie 
lobster  fact'ry  ?" 

"  No,  I'd  sail  in  the  boat  with  3  ou,"  said  Kate, 
promptly  and  with  contidence. 

The  O'x^Iahony  laughed  aloud. 

"  I  guess  )-ou"d  a  got  your  till  of  it  yisterday,  sis," 
he  remarked. 

"  It's  that  I'd  have  liked  best  of  all,"  she  pursued. 
"Ah!  take  me  with  you,  O'Mahony,  whin  next  the 
waves  are  up  and  the  wind's  tearin'  tit  to  bust  itsilf. 
I'll  not  die  till  I've  been  out  in  the  thick  of  it,  wance 
for  all." 

"  Why,  gal  alive,  you'd  a-be'a  smashed  into  sau- 
sage-meat!" chuckled  the  man.  "  Still,  you're  right, 
tiior.gh.  They  ain't  nothin'  else  in  tlie  \vorld  fit  to 
hold  a  candle  to  it.  Egad!  Some  time  1  Ccv'// take 
3()u,  sis!" 

The  child  spoke  more  seriously  : 

"Sure,  we're  the  O'lNIahonys  of  the  Coast  of 
White  Foam,  according  to  O'Hcerin's  old  verse,  and 
it's  in  my  blood  as  well  as  yours." 

"  Right  you  are,  sis  !"  he  resiXMided,  smiling,  as 
he  added  under  his  breath  :  "  an'  nicbbe  a  ti-ifle 
more."  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he  changed 
the  subject. 

"  See  here  ;  you're  up  on  these  things — in  fact, 
they  don't  seem  to  learn  you  anything  else — hain't  I 
heerd  O'Daly  tell  about  the  old  O'Mahonys  luggin' 


1 20  The  Rctursi  of  The   O'Mahony. 

round  a  box  full  o'  saints'  bones  when  they  went  on 
a  rampage,  to  sort  o'  give  'em  luck !  I  got  to  thinkin' 
about  it  last  night  after  I  went  to  bed,  but  I  couldn't 
jest  git  it  straight  in  my  head." 

"  It's  the  cathacJi  "  (she  pronounced  it  ca/ia)  "  )^ou 
mane,"  Kate  answered.  "  Sometimes  it  contained 
bones,  but  more  often  'twas  a  crozieror  a  holy  book 
from  the  saint's  own  pen,  or  a  part  of  his  vest- 
mints." 

"No;  I  like  the  bones  notion  best,"  said  The 
O'Mahony.  "  There's  something  substantial  an' 
solid  about  bones.  If  3^ou've  got  a  genuine  saint's 
bones,  it's  a  thing  he's  bound  to  take  an  interest  in, 
an'  see  through  ;  whereas,  them  other  things^ — his 
books  an'  his  clo'se  an'  so  on — why,  he  may  a-been 
sick  an'  tired  of  'em  years  'fore  he  died." 

It  was  the  girl's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  It's  a  strange  new  fit  of  piety  ye've  on  yeh, 
O'Mahon}',''  she  said,  with  the  familiarity  of  a  spoiled 
pet.  "Sure,  when  I  tell  the  nuns,  they'll  be  lookin' 
to  see  you  build  up  a  whole  foine  new  convint  for 
'em  without  delay." 

"  No ;  I'm  savin'  that  till  you  git  to  be  the  boss 
nun,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  dryl}^  and  with  a  grin. 

"  'Tis  older  than  Methusalem  3^e'll  be  thin  !"  asked 
the  child,  laughingly.  And  with  that  she  seized  his 
hand  once  more  and  dragged  him  forward  to  a 
closer  inspection  of  the  ruins. 


Some  hours  later,  having  been  diiven  across 
country  to  Dunmanway  b}-  Malachy,  and  thence 
taken  the  local  train  onv.-ard,  The  0'-^Iahonv  found 


A  Face  from  ilic    Winding- Sheet.        1 2 1 

himself  in  the  station  at  Ballinecn,  with  barel}'  time 
enough  to  hurry  across  the  tracks  and  leap  into  the 
!  rain  which  was  aireacU''  starting-  westward.  In  this  he 
\.as  borne  back  over  the  road  he  had  just  traversed, 
until  a  stop  was  made  at  Manch  station.  The 
'■  )'Mahon)^  alighted  here,  much  pleased  with  the 
strategy  which  made  him  appear  to  have  come  from 
the  east.  He  took  an  outside  car,  and  was  driven 
some  two  miles  into  the  bleak,  mountainous  country 
beyond  Tootue,  to  a  wayside  inn  knowm  as  Kearney's 
Retreat.  Here  he  dismoiuited,  bidding  the  carman 
solace  himself  with  drink,  and  wait. 

Entering  the  tavern,  he  paused  at  the  bar  and 
asked  for  two  small  bottles  of  porter  to  be  poured 
in  one  glass.  Two  or  three  men  were  loitering 
about  the  room,  and  he  spoke  just  loud  enough  to 
make  sure  that  all  might  hear  him.  Tiien,  having 
drained  the  glass,  and  stood  idly  conversing  for  a 
minute  or  two  with  the  woman  at  the  bar,  he  made 
his  way  through  a  side  do(jr  into  the  adjoining  ball 
alley,  where  some  young  fellows  of  the  neighbor- 
hood chanced  to  be  engaged  in  a  game. 

He  stood  apart,  watching  their  play,  for  cnlv  a 
few  moments.  Then  one  of  the  men  whom  he  had 
seen  but  not  looked  closely  at  in  tlie  bar,  came  up 
to  him,  and  said  from  behind,  in  an  interrogative 
whisper : 

"  Captain  Harrier,  I  believe  ?" 

*'  Yes,"  said  The  O'Mahon}',  "  Captain  Harrier — " 
with  a  vague  notion  of  having  heard  that  voice 
before. 

Then  he  turned,  and  in  the  straggling  roof-light 
of  the  alley  beheld  the  other's  fa-ce.     It  taxed  to  the 


122  The  Return  of  The   O MaJcony. 

utmost  every  element  of  self-possession  in  liim  to 
choke  down  the  exclamation  which  sprang  to  his 
lips. 

The  man  before  him  was  Linsky  ! — Linsky  risen 
from  the  dead,  with  the  scarred  gash  visible  on  his 
throat,  and  the  shifty  blue-green  eyes  still  blood- 
shot, and  set  with  reddened  eyelids  in  a  freckled 
face. 

"  Yes — Captain — Harrier,"  he  repeated,  lingering 
upon  each  word,  as  his  brain  fiercely  strove  to 
assert  mastery  over  amazement,  apprehension  and 
perplexity. 

The  new-comer  looked  full  into  the  Tlie  O'Ma- 
hony's  face  without  any  sign  whatever  of  recognition, 

"Thin  I'm  to  place  mesilf  at  your  disposal,"  he 
said,  briefly.  "  You  know  more  of  what's  in  the  air 
than  I  do,  no  doubt.  Everything  is  arranged,  I 
hear,  for  rising  in  both  Cork  an'  Tralee  to-morrow, 
an'  in  manny  places  in  both  counties  besides. 
Officiall}',  however,  I  know  nothing  of  this — an' 
have  no  right  to  know.  I'm  just  to  put  mysilf  at 
your  command,  and  deliver  anny  messages  you 
desire  to  sind  to  other  cinters  in  your  district. 
Here's  me  papers." 

The  O'iNlahony  barely  glanced  at  the  inclosures 
of  the  envelope  handed  him.  They  took  the  taniiiicU- 
form  of  a  business  letter  of  introductioii,  and  a  com- 
mercial contract,  signed  by  a  (inn  name  which  to 
the  uninitiated  bore  no  significance.  He  noted  that 
the  name  given  was  "  Major  Lynch."  He  observed 
also,  with  satisfaction,  that  Ids  hand,  as  it  held  the 
papers,  was  entirely  steady. 

"  Everybody's   been     notified,"    he   said,   after   a 


A   Face  from  the    Windiug-Shcct.        123 

time,  instinctively  assuming-  a  slight  hoarseness  of 
speech.  "  I've  been  all  over  the  ground,  myself. 
You  can  meet  me — let's  see — sa}^  at  the  bottom  of 
the  black  rock  jest  overlookin'  tlie   marlellcr  lower 

at at  eleven  o'clock,  sharp,  to-morrow  foienoon. 

The  rocks  behind  the  tower,  mind — t'other  side  01 
the  coast-guard  houses.  You'll  see  mc  land  from 
my  boat." 

"I'll  not  fail,"  said  the  other.  "I  can  bring  a 
gun — mor3-ah,  I'm  shooting  at  sa3--gulls." 

"  The}'  ain't  much  need  of  that,"  responded  The 
O'Mahony.  "  You  might  git  stopped  an'  ques- 
tioned. There'll  be  guns  enough.  Of  course,  the 
takin'  of  the  tower  '11  be  as  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log. 
The  thing  '11  be  to  hold  it  afterward." 

"  We'll  howld  whatever  we  take,  sir.  all  Ireland 
over,"  said  Major  Lynch,  with  enthusiasm. 

"I  hope  so!  Good-bye.  Mind,  eleven  sharp," 
was  the  response,  and  the  two  men  separated. 

The  O'Mahony  did  not  wait  for  the  finish  of  the 
game  of  ball,  but  sauntered  out  of  the  alley  through 
the  end  door,  walked  to  his  car,  and  set  off  direct 
for  Toome.  At  this  place  he  decided  to  drive  on  to 
Dunmanway  station.  Dismissing  the  carman  at  the 
door,  and  watching  his  departure,  he  walked  over  to 
the  hotel,  joined  the  waiting  Malachy,  and  soon  uas 
well  on  his  jolting  way  back  to  Muirisc. 

Curiously  enough,  the  bearing  of  Linsky's  return 
upon  his  own  personal  fortunes  and  safety  bore  a 
very  small  part  in  The  O'Mahony's  meditations,  as 
he  clung  to  his  seat  over  the  rough  homeward  road. 
All  that  might  take  care  of  itself,  and  he  pushed  it 
almost  contemptuously  aside  ia  his  mind.     What  hs 


124  The  Return  of  The    O MaJioiiy. 

ilicl  ponder  upon  imceasingly,  and  with  growing 
distrust,  was  the  suspicion  with  which  the  manner 
of  the  man's  offer  to  deliver  messages  had  inspired 
him. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   TALISMAN    AND    A    TRAITOR. 

At  five  o'clock  on  this  February  morning  it  was 
still  dark.  For  more  than  half  an  hour  a  light  had 
been  from  time  to  time  visible,  flitting  about  in  the 
inhabited  parts  of  the  castle.  There  was  no  answer- 
ing gleams  from  any  of  the  cottage  windows,  along 
the  other  side  of  the  village  green  ;  but  all  the  same, 
solitary  figures  began  to  emerge  from  the  cabins, 
until  eighteen  men  had  crossed  the  open  space  and 
were  gathered  upon  the  little  stone  pier  at  the  edge 
of  the  muirisc.  They  stood  silently  together,  with 
only  now  and  again  a  whispered  word,  waiting  for 
they  knew  not  what. 

Presently,  by  the  faint  semblance  of  light  which 
was  creeping  up  behind  the  eastern  hills,  they  saw 
Jerry,  Malachy  and  Dominic  approaching,  each 
bearinof  a  burden  on  his  back.  These  were  two  of 
the  long  coffin-like  boxes  and  two  kegs,  one  pro- 
digiously heavy,  the  other  by  comparison  light. 
The)'  were  deposited  on  the  wharf  without  a  word, 
and  the  two  first  went  back  again,  while  Dominic 
silently  led  the  others  in  the  task  of  bestowing  what 
all  present  knew  lo  be  guns,  lead  and  powder,  on 


126  The  Return  of  The   O' Mahoiiy, 

board  the  Hen  Haivk.  This  had  been  done,  and  the 
men  had  again  waited  for  some  minutes  before  The 
O'Mahony  made  liis  appearanee. 

He  advanced  through  the  obscure  morning  twi- 
liglit  with  a  brisk  step,  whistling  softly  as  he  came. 
The  men  noted  that  he  wore  shooting-clothes,  with 
gaiters  to  the  knee,  and  a  wide-brimmed,  soft,  black 
hat,  even  then  known  in  Ireland  as  the  American 
hat,  just  as  the  Americans  had  previously  called  it 
the  Kossuth. 

Half-wa}',  but  within  full  view  of  the  waiting 
group,  he  stopped,  and  looked  criticall}^  at  the  sky. 
Then  he  stepped  aside  from  the  path,  and  took  off 
this  hat  of  his.     The  men  wondered  what  it  meant. 

Jeri'y  was  coming  along  again  from  the  castle,  his 
arms  half  filled  with  parcels.  He  stopped  beside 
the  chief,  and  stood  facing  the  path,  removing  his 
cap  as  well. 

Then  the  puzzled  observers  saw  Malachy  looming 
out  of  the  misty  shadows,  also  bare-headed,  and 
carrying  at  arms  length  before  him  a  square  case, 
about  in  bulk  like  a  hat-box.  As  he  passed  The 
O'Mahony  and  Jerry  they  bowed,  and  then  fell  in 
behind  him,  and  marched,  still  uncovered,  toward 
the  landing-place. 

The  tide  was  at  its  fiood,  and  the  Hen  Haivk 
had  been  hauled  by  ropes  up  close  to  the  wharf, 
JMalach}',  with  stolid  face  and  solemn  mien,  strode 
in  hue  military  style  over  the  gunwale  and  along 
the  flush  deck  to  the  bow.  Here  he  deposited  his 
mysterious  burden,  bowed  to  it,  and  then  put  on 
the  hat  he  had  been  carrying  under  his  arm. 

The  men  crowded  on  board  at  this — all  save  two, 


A    Talisman  and  a    Traitor.  12' 


who  now  rowed  forward  in  a  small  boat,  and  began 
pulling  the  Hen  Hazvk  out  over  the  bar  with  a  haw- 
ser. As  the  unwield}'  craft  slowl)-  moved,  The 
O'Mahon}'  turned  a  long,  ruminative  gaze  upon  the 
sleeping  hamlet  they  were  leaving  behind.  The 
whole  eastern  sky  was  awake  now  with  light—  light 
v.-hich  la}'  in  brilliant  bars  of  lemon  hue  upon  the 
hill-tops,  and  mellowed  upward  through  opal  and 
pearl  into  fleec}'  ashen  tints.  The  two  in  the  boat 
dropped  behind,  fastened  their  tiny  craft  to  the 
stern,  and  clambered  on  board. 

A  fresh,  chill  breeze  caught  and  filled  the  jib  once 
they  had  passed  the  bar,  and  the  crew  laid  their 
hands  upon  the  ropes,  expecting  orders  to  hoist  the 
mainsail  and  mizzen-sheets.  But  The  O'jNIahony 
gave  no  sign,  and  lounged  in  silence  against  the  til- 
ler, spitting  over  the  taffrail  into  the  water,  until  the 
vessel  had  rounded  the  point  and  stood  well  off 
the  cliffs,  out  of  sight  of  Muirisc,  plunging  softly 
along  through  the  swell.  Then  he  beckoned  Dom- 
inic to  the  helm,  and  walked  over  toward  the  mast, 
with  a  gesture  which  summoned  the  whole  score  of 
men  about  him.  To  them  he  began  the  first  speech 
he  had  ever  made  in  his  life  : 

"  Now,  bo3's,"  he  said,  "  prob'ly  you've  noticed 
tliP.t  the  name's  been  painted  off  the  starn  of  this  ere 
vessel,  over  ni^-ht.  You  must  'a'  fig^ured  it  out  from 
tb.at,  that  we're  out  on  the  loose,  so  to  speak. 
Thay's  only  a  few  of  ye  that  have  ever  known  me 
as  a  Fenian.  It  was  agin  the  rules  that  3'ou  should 
know  me,  but  I've  known  you  all,  an'  I've  be'n 
watchin*  you  drill,  night  after  night,  unbeknown  to 
you.     Ill  fact,  it  come  to  the  same    thing   as   my 


128  The  Rettirn  of  The   O Mahony. 

drillin'  \<^^w  myself — because,  unlil  I  taught  your 
center,  Jerry,  he  knew  about  as  much  about  it  as  a 
pig  knows  about  ironin'  a  shirt.  Well,  now  you  all 
see  me.     I'm  your  boss  Fenian  in  these  parts." 

"  Huroo  !"  cried  the  men,  waving  their  hats. 

I  don't  really  suppose  this  intelligence  surprised 
them  in  the  least,  but  they  fell  gracefully  in  with 
The  O'Mahony's  wish  that  it  should  seem  to  do  so, 
as  is  the  polite  wont  of  their  race. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  colloquially,  "  here  we  are! 
We've  been  waitin'  and  workin'  for  a  deuce  of  a 
long  time.  Now,  at  last,  they's  somethin'  for  us  to 
d(3.  It  ain't  my  fault  that  it  didn't  come  months  and 
months  ago.  But  that  don't  matter  now.  What  I 
want  to  know  is:  are  you  game  to  follow  me?" 

"We  are,  O'Mahony!"  they  called  out,  as  one 
man. 

"  That's  right.  I  guess  you  know  me  well  enough 
b3^this  time  to  know  I  don't  ask  no  man  to  go  where 
I'm  afeared  to  go  m3'self.  There's  goin'  to  be  some 
fightin',  though,  an'  3a:)u  fellows  are  new  to  that 
sort  of  thing.  Now,  I've  b'en  a  soldier,  on  an'  off, 
a  good  share  of  my  life.  I  ain't  a  bit  braver  than 
you  are,  only  1  know  more  about  what  it's  like  than 
you  do.  An'  besides,  I  should  be  all-fired  sorry  to 
have  any  of  3'e  git  hurt.  You've  all  b'en  as  good  to 
me  as  3'our  skins  could  hold,  an'  I'll  do  m3^  best  to 
see  3'ou  through  this  thing,  safe  an'  sound." 

"  Cheers  for  The  0'Mahon3^  !"  some  one  cried 
out,  excitedl3-  ;  but  he  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

"  Better  not  holler  till  3'ou  git  out  o'  the  woods," 
he  said,  and  then  went  on:  "  Scein'  that  }^ou've 
never,  any  of  you,  be'n  under  fire,  I've  thought  of 


A    Talis77ian  and  a   Traitor.  129 

somethin'  that'll  help  ^you  to  keep  a  stiff  upper-lip, 
when  the  time  comes  to  need  it.  A  good  many  of 
you  are  O'Mahonys  born;  all  of  you  come  from 
men  who  have  followed  The  O'Mahony  of  their  time 
in  battle.  Well,  in  them  old  days,  you  know,  they 
used  to  carry  their  catJiacJi  with  them,  to  bring  'em 
luck,  same  as  American  boys  spit  on  their  bait  when 
they're  fishin'.  So  I've  had  Malachy,  here,  bring 
along  a  box,  specially  made  for  the  purpose,  an'  it's 
chuck  full  of  the  bones  of  a  family  saint  of  mine. 
We  found  him — me  an'  Jerry — after  the  wind  had 
blown  part  of  the  convent  down,  layin'  just  where 
he  was  put  when  he  died,  with  the  crucifix  in  his 
hands,  and  a  monk's  gown  on.  I  ain't  a  very  good 
man,  an'  p'r'aps  you  fellows  have  noticed  that  I 
ain't  much  of  a  hand  for  church,  or  that  sort  of 
thing;  but  I  says  to  myself,  when  I  found  this  dead 
an'  dried  body  of  an  O'Mahony  who  was  pious  an' 
good  an*  all  that :  *  You  shall  come  along  with  us, 
friend,  an'  see  our  tussle  through.'  He  was  an 
Irishman  in  the  days  when  Irishmen  run  their  ov^^n 
country  in  their  own  way,  an*  I  thought  he'd  be 
glad  to  come  along  with  us  now,  an'  see  whether 
we  was  fit  to  call  ourselves  Irishmen,  too.  An*  I 
reckon  you'll  be  glad,  too,  to  have  him  with  us." 

Stirred  by  a  solitary  impulse,  the  men  looked 
toward  the  box  at  the  bow — a  rudely  built  little 
chest,  with  strips  of  worn  leather  nailed  to  its  sides 
and  top — and  took  off  their  hats. 

"  We  are,  O'Mahony  !"  they  cried. 

"  Up  with  your  sails,  then !"  The  O'Mahony 
shouted,  with  a  sudden  change  to  eager  animation. 

And  in  a  twinkling  the  Hen  Hawk  had  ceased  dal- 


130  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony, 

lying,  and,  with  stiffly  bowed  canvas  and  a  buoyant, 
forward  careen,  was  kicking  the  spray  behind  her 
into  the  receding  picture  of  the  Dunmanus  ch'ffs. 


Nearly  five  hours  later,  a  little  council,  or,  one 
might  better  say,  dialogue  of  war,  was  held  at  the 
stern  of  the  speeding  vessel.  The  rifles  had  long 
since  been  taken  out  and  put  together,  and  the  cart- 
ridges which  Jerry  had  alread}'  made  up  distributed. 
The  men  were  gathered  forward,  ready  for  what- 
ever adventure  their  chief  had  in  mind. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  lay  to  in  a  minute  or  two,"  confided 
The  O' Mahony  to  Jerry,  in  an  undertone. 

Jerry  looked  inquiring!}'-  up  and  down  the  deserted 
stretch  of  brown  headlands  before  them.  Not  a  sign 
of  habitation  was  in  view. 

"  Is  it  this  we've  come  to  besayge  and  capture  ?" 
he  asked,  with  incredulity. 

"No.  Right  round  that  corner,  though,  la3^s  the 
marteller  tower  we're  after.  Up  to  yesterday  my 
plan  was  jest  to  sail  bang  up  to  her  an'  walk  in.  But 
somethin'  's  happened  to  change  my  notions. 
They've  sent  a  fellow — an  American  Irishman — to 
be  what  they  call  ray  '  cojutor.'  I  don't  jest  know 
what  it  means  ;  but,  whatever  it  is,  I  don't  think 
much  of  it.  He's  waitin'  over  there  for  me  to  land. 
Well,  now,  I'm  goin'  to  land  here  instid,  an'  take 
five  of  the  men  with  me,  an'  kind  o'  santer  down 
toward  the  tower  from  the  land  side,  keepin'  behind 
the  hedges.  You'll  stay  on  board  here,  with  Dom- 
inic at  the  helm  under  your  orders,  and  only  the  jib 
and  mizzen-top  up,  and  jest  mosey  along  into  the 
cove  toward  the  tower,  keepin'   your  men   out   o' 


A    Talisman  and  a   Traitor.  131 

sight  and  watchin'  for  me.  If  there's  a  nigger  in 
the  fence,  I'll  smoke  him  out  that  way." 

Some  further  directions  in  detail  followed,  and 
then  the  bulk  of  the  canvas  was  struck,  and  the 
vessel  hove  to.  The  small  boat  was  drawn  to  the 
side,  and  the  landing  party  descended  to  it.  One 
of  their  own  number  took  the  oars,  for  it  was 
intended  to  keep  the  boat  in  waiting  on  the  beach. 
Their  guns  lay  in  the  bottom,  and  they  were  con- 
scious of  a  novel  weight  of  ammunition  in  their 
pockets.  They  waved  their  hands  in  salution  to  the 
friends  and  neighbors  they  were  leaving,  and  then, 
with  a  vigorous  sweep  of  the  oars,  the  boat  went 
tossing  on  her  course  to  the  barren,  rocky  shore. 

The  O'Mahony,  curled  up  on  the  seat  at  the  bow, 
scanned  the  wide  prospect  with  a  roving  scrutiny. 
No  sail  was  visible  on  the  whole  horizon.  A  drab, 
hazy  stain  over  the  distant  sky-line  told  only  tliat 
the  track  of  the  great  Atlantic  steamers  lay  out- 
ward many  miles.  On  the  land  side — where  rough, 
blackened  boulders  rose  in  ugly  points  from  the  lap- 
ping water,  as  outposts  to  serried  ranks  of  lichened 
rocks  which,  in  their  turn,  straggled  backward  in 
slanting  ascent  to  the  summit,  masked  by  shaggy 
growths  of  furze — no  token  of  human  life  was  visible. 

A  landing-place  was  found,  and  the  boat  securely 
drawn  up  on  shore  beyond  highwater  mark. 
Then  The  O'Mahony  led  the  way,  gun  in  hand, 
across  the  slippery  reach  of  wet  sea-weed,  and 
thence,  by  winding  courses,  obliquely  up  the  hill- 
side. He  climbed  from  crag  to  crag  with  the  agility 
of  a  goat,  but  the  practiced  Muirisc  men  kept  close 
at  his  heels. 


132  The  Retu7'7i  of  The  O Mahony. 

Arrived  at  the  top,  he  paused  in  the  shelter  of  the 
furze  bushes  to  study  the  situation. 

It  was  a  great  and  beautiful  panorama  upon  which 
he  looked  meditatively  down.  The  broad  bay  lay 
proudly  in  the  arms  of  an  encircling  wall  of  cliffs, 
whose  terraced  heights  rose  and  spread  with  the 
dignity  of  some  amphitheatre  of  the  giants.  At  their 
base,  the  blue  waters  broke  in  a  caressing  ripple  of 
cream-like  foam ;  afar  off,  the  sunshine  crowned 
their  purple  heads  with  a  golden  haze.  Through 
the  center  of  this  noble  sweep  of  sheltering  hills 
cleft  the  wooded  gorge  of  a  river,  whose  mouth 
kissed  the  strand  in  the  screening  shadow  of  a  huge 
mound,  reared  precipitously  above  the  sea-front, 
but  linked  by  level  stretches  of  sward  to  the  main- 
land behind.  On  the  summit  of  this  mound,  over- 
looking the  bay,  was  one  of  those  curious  old  mar- 
tello  towers  with  which  England  marked  the  low 
comedy  stage  of  her  panic  about  Bonaparte's  inva- 
sion. 

The  tower — a  squat,  circular  stone  fort,  with  a 
basement  for  magazine  purposes,  and  an  upper 
story  for  defensive  operations — kept  its  look-out  for 
Corsican  ghosts  in  solitude.  Considerably  to  this 
side,  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  was  a  white  cluster  of 
coast-guard  houses,  in  the  yard  of  which  two  or  three 
elderly  men  in  sailor  attire  could  be  seen  sunning 
themselves.  Away  in  the  distance,  on  the  farther 
bend  of  the  bay,  the  roofs  and  walls  of  a  cluster  of 
cottages  were  visible,  and  above  these,  among  the 
trees,  scattered  glimpses  of  wealthier  residences. 

Of  all  this  vast  spectacle  The  O'IMahony  saw 
nothing  but  the  martello  tower,  and    the    several 


A    Talisman  and  a   Traitor.  133 

approaches  to  it  past  the  coast-guard  houses.  He 
chose  the  best  of  these,  and  led  the  way,  crouching 
low  behind  the  line  of  hedges,  until  the  whole  party 
halted  in  the  cover  of  a  clump  of  young  sycamores, 
upon  the  edge  of  the  open  space  leading  to  the 
mound,  A  hundred  feet  away  from  them,  at  the 
base  of  a  jagged  bowlder  of  black  slatish  substance, 
stood  a  man,  his  face  turned  toward  the  tower  and 
the  sea.     It  was  Linsky. 

After  a  time  he  lifted  his  hand,  as  if  in  signal  to 
some  one  beyond. 

The  O'Mahony,  from  his  shelter  behind,  could 
see  that  the  Hen  Hazvk  had  rounded  the  point,  and 
was  lazily  rocking  her  way  along  across  the  bay, 
shoreward  toward  tlie  tower.  For  a  moment  he 
assumed  that  Linsky 's  sign  was  intended  for  the 
vessel. 

Then  some  transitory  movement  on  the  surface 
of  the  tower  itself  caught  his  wandering  glance^  and 
in  the  instant  he  had  mastered  every  detail  of  a 
most  striking  incident.  A  man  in  a  red  coat  had 
suddenly  appeared  at  the  landward  window  of  the 
martello  tower,  made  a  signal  to  Linskey,  and 
vanished  like  a  fiash. 

The  O'Mahony  thoughtfully  raised  his  rifle,  and 
fastened  his  attention  upon  that  portion  of  Linsky 's 
breast  and  torso  which  showed  above  the  black, 
unshaken  sight  at  the  end  of  its  barrel. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   RETREAT   WITH   THE   PRISONERS. 

The  Hen  Hawk  was  idly  drifting  into  the  cove 
toward  the  little  fishing-smack  pier  of  stone  and 
piles  which  ran  out  like  a  tongue  from  the 
lower  end  of  the  mound.  Only  two  of  her  r.icn 
were  visible  on  deck.  A  group  of  gulls  wheeled 
and  floated  about  the  thick  little  craft  as  she 
crawled  landward. 

These  things  The  O'Mahony  vaguely  noted  as  a 
background  to  the  figure  of  the  traitor  by  the  rock, 
which  he  studied  now  with  a  hard-lined  face  and 
stony  glance  over  the  shining  rifle-barrel. 

He  hesitated,  let  the  weapon  sink,  raised  it 
again — then  once  for  all  put  it  down.  He  would 
not  shoot  Linsky. 

But  the  problem  what  to  do  instead  pressed  all 
the  more  urgently  for  solution. 

The  O'Mahony  pondered  it  gravely,  with  an  alert 
gaze  scanning  the  whole  field  of  the  rock,  the 
towered  mound  and  the  waters  beyond  for  helping 
hints.  All  at  once  his  face  brightened  in  token  of  a 
plan  resolved  upon.  He  whispered  some  hurried 
directions  to  his  companions,  and  then,  gun  in  hand, 
quitted     his    ambush.     Bending    low,     with    long, 

[134] 


The  Retreat  with  the  Prisoners.         135 

slcalthy  strides,  he  stole  along'  the  line  of  yew 
hedge  to  the  rear  of  the  rock  whicli  sheltered 
Linsky.  He  reached  it  without  discovery,  and, 
still  noiselessly,  half  slipped,  half  leaped  down  the 
earthern  bank  beside  it.  At  this  instant  his 
shadow  betrayed  him.  Linsky  turned,  his  lips 
opened  to  speak.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  reeled 
and  fell  like  a  log  under  a  terrific  sidelong  blow  on 
jaw  and  skull  from  the  stock  of  The  O'Mahony's 
clubbed  gun. 

The  excited  watchers  from  the  sycamore  shield 
behind  saw  him  fall,  and  saw  their  leader  spring 
upon  his  sinking  form  and  drag  it  backward  out  of 
sight  of  the  martello  tower.  Linsky  was  wearing  a 
noticeable  russet-brown  short  coat.  They  saw  The 
O'Mahony  strip  this  off  the  other's  prostrate  body 
and  exchange  it  for  his  own.  Then  he  put  on 
Linsky's  hat — a  drab,  low-crowned  felt,  pulled  well 
over  his  ej-es — and  stood  out  boldly  in  the  noon 
sunlight,  courting  observation  from  the  tower. 
He  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  spread 
it  out  upon  the  black  surface  of  the  rock,  and 
began  pacing  up  and  down  before  it  with  his  eyes 
on  the  tower. 

Presently  the  same  red-coated  apparition  was 
momentarily  visible  at  the  land-side  window.  The 
O'Mahony  held  up  his  hand  and  went  through  a 
complicated  gesture  which  should  signify  that  he 
was  coming  over  to  the  tower,  and  desired  the  other 
to  come  down  and  talk  with  him.  This  other  gave 
a  sign  of  comprehension  and  assent,  and  disap- 
peared. 

The    O'Mahony     walked,    unarmed,  and     with    a 


136  The  Rehtrn  of  The  GMahony. 

light,  springing  step,  across  tlie  sloping  sward  to 
the  tower.  He  paused  at  the  side  of  its  gray  wall 
for  an  instant,  to  note  that  the  Hen  Hawk  lay  only  a 
few  feet  distant  from  the  pier-end.  Then  he  entered 
the  open  ground-door  of  the  tower,  and  found  him- 
self in  a  circular,  low,  stone  room,  which,  though 
whitewashed,  seemed  dark,  after  the  bright  sunlight 
outside.  Some  barrels  stood  in  a  row  against  the 
wall,  and  one  of  these  was  filled  with  soiled  cotton- 
waste  which  had  been  used  for  cleaning  guns.  The 
newcomer  helped  himself  to  a  large  handful  of  this, 
and  took  from  his  pocket  a  compact  coil  of  stout 
packing-cord.  Then  he  moved  toward  the  little  iron 
staircase  at  the  other  end  of  the  chamber,  and,  lean- 
ing with  his  back  against  it,  waited. 

The  next  minute  the  door  above  opened,  and  the 
clatter  of  spurred  boots  rang  out  on  the  metal  steps. 
The  O'Mahony's  sidelong  glance  saw  two  legs,  clad 
in  blue  regimental  trowsers  with  a  red  stripe, 
descend  past  his  head,  and  then  the  flaring  vision  of 
a  scarlet  jacket. 

"  Well,  they're  landing,  it  seems,"  said  the  officer, 
as  his  foot  was  on  the  bottom  step. 

The  O'Mahony  turned  like  a  leopard,  and  sprang 
forward,  flinging  his  arm  around  the  other's  neck, 
and  jamming  him  backward  against  the  steps  and 
wall,  while,  with  his  free  hand,  he  thrust  the  greasy, 
noxious  rags  into  his  mouth  and  face.  The  struggle 
between  the  two  strong  men  was  fierce  for  a 
moment.  Then  the  officer,  blinded  and  choking 
under  the  gag,  felt  himself  being  helplessly  bound, 
as  if  with  wires,  so  tightly  were  the  merciless  liga- 
tures  drawn  round   arms  and   legs  and  head — and 


The  Retreat  ivith  the  Prisoners.         137 

then  hoisted  into  mid-air,  and  ignominiously  jolted 
forward  through  space,  with  the  effect  of  riding 
pickaback  on  a  giant  kangaroo. 

The  O'Mahony  emerged  from  the  tower,  bent 
ahnost  double  under  the  burden  of  the  stalwart 
captive,  who  still  kept  up  a  vain,  writhing  attempt  at 
resistance.  The  whole  episode  had  lasted  scarcely 
two  minutes,  and  no  one  above  seemed  to  have  heard 
the  few  muffled  sounds  of  the  conflict. 

With  a  single  glance  toward  the  companions  he 
had  left  in  hiding  among  the  sycamores,  he  began 
a  hasty,  staggering  course  diagonally  down  the  side 
of  the  mound  toward  the  water-front.  He  did  not 
even  stop  to  learn  whether  pursuit  was  on  foot,  or  if 
his  orders  had  been  obeyed  concerning  Linsky, 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  had  to  force  his  way 
through  a  thick  thorn  hedge  to  gain  the  roadway 
leading  to  the  pier.  Weighted  as  he  was,  the  task 
was  a  difficult  one,  and  when  it  was  at  last  triumph- 
antly accomplished,  his  clothes  hung  in  tatters  about 
him,  and  he  was  covered  with  scratches.  He  dog- 
gedly made  his  way  onward,  however,  with  bowed, 
bare  head  and  set  teeth,  stumbling  along  the  quay  to 
the  vessel's  edge.  The  Heri  Hazvk  had  been  brought 
up  to  the  pier-corner,  and  The  O'Mahony,  stagger- 
ing over  the  gunwale,  let  his  burden  fall,  none  too 
gently,  upon  the  deck. 

A  score  of  yards  to  the  rear,  came,  at  a  loping 
dog-trot,  the  five  men  he  had  left  behind  him  among 
the  trees.  One  of  them  bore  an  armful  of  guns  and 
his  master's  discarded  coat  and  hat.  Each  of  the 
others  grasped  either  a  leg  or  an  arm  of  the  still 
insensible  Linsky,  and,  as  they  in  turn    leapt  upon 


1 38  The  Return  of  The  OMahony. 

the   vessel,    they    slung  him,    lace    downward    and 
supinely  limp,  sprawling  beside  the  officer. 

With  all  swiftness,  sails  were  rattled  up,  and  the 
weight  of  half-a-dozen  brawny  shoulders  laid  against 
pike-poles  to  push  the  vessel  off. 

The  tower  had  suddenl)^  taken  the  alarm  !  The 
reverberating  "  boom-m-m "  of  a  cannon  sent  its 
echoes  from  cliff  to  cliff,  and  the  casement  windows 
under  the  machicolated  eaves  were  bristling  with 
gun-barrels  flashing  in  the  noon-day  sun. 

For  one  anxious  minute — even  as  the  red-coats 
began  to  issue,  like  a  file  of  wasps,  from  the  door- 
way at  the  bottom  of  the  tower — the  sails  hung 
slack.  Then  a  shifting  land-breeze  caught  and  filled 
the  sheets,  the  Hen  Hazvk  shook  herself,  dipped  her 
beak  in  the  sunny  waters — and  glided  serenelj'  for- 
ward. 

She  was  standing  out  to  sea,  a  fair  hundred  yards 
from  land,  when  the  score  of  soldiers  came  to  the 
finish  of  their  chase  on  the  pier-end,  and  gazed, 
with  hot  faces  and  short  breath,  upon  her  receding 
hull.  She  was  still  within  range,  and  they  instinct- 
ively half-poised  their  guns  to  shoot.  But  here 
was  the  difficulty :  The  O'Mahony  had  lifted  the 
grotesquely  bound  and  gagged  figure  of  their  com- 
manding officer,  and  held  it  upright  beside  him  at 
the  helm. 

For  this  reason  they  forbore  to  shoot,  and  con- 
tented themselves  with  a  verbal  volley  of  curses  and 
shouts  of  rage,  which  may  have  startled  the  circling 
gulls,  but  raised  only  a  staid  momentary  smile  on 
the  gaunt  face  of  The  O'Mahony.  He  shrilled  back 
a  prompt  rejoinder  in  the  teeth  of  the  breeze,  which 


The  Retreat  with  the  Prisoners.        139 


belongs  to  polite   literature  no   more  than  did  the 
cries  to  which  it  was  a  response. 

Thus  the  Hen  Hawk  ploughed  her  steady  way  out 
to  open  sea — until  the  red-coats  which  had  been 
dodging  about  on  the  heights  above  were  lost  to 
sight  through  even  the  strongest  glass,  and  the 
brown  headlands  of  the  coast  had  become  only  dim 
shadows  of  blue  haze  on  the  sky  line. 


Linsky  had  been  borne  below,  to  have  his  head 
washed  and  bandaged,  and  then  to  sleep  his  swoon 
off,  if  so  be  that  he  was  to  recover  sensibility  at  all 
during  what  remained  to  him  of  terrestrial  existence. 
The  British  officer  had  even  before  that  been 
relieved  of  the  odious  gun-rag  gag,  and  some  of  the 
more  uncomfortable  of  his  bonds.  He  had. been 
given  a  seat,  too,  on  a  coil  of  rope  beside  the 
capstan — against  which  he  leaned  in  obdurate 
silence,  with  his  brows  bent  in  a  prolonged  scowl  of 
disgust  and  wrath.  More  than  one  of  the  crew, 
and  of  the  non-maritime  Muirisc  men  as  well,  had 
asked  him  if  he  wanted  anything,  and  got  not  so 
much  as  a  shake  of  the  head  in  reply. 

The  O'Mahony  paced  up  and  down  the  forward 
deck,  for  a  long  time,  watching  this  captive  of  his, 
and  vaguely  revolving  in  his  thoughts  the  problem 
of  what  to  do  with  him.  The  taking  of  prisoners 
had  been  no  part  of  his  original  scheme.  Indeed, 
for  that  matter,  nothing  of  this  original  scheme 
seemed  to  be  left.  He  had  had,  he  realized  now,  a 
distinct  foreboding  of  Linsky's  treachery.  Yet  its 
discovery  had  as  completely  altered  everything  as 


140  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

if  it  had  come  upon  him  entirely  unawares.  He 
had  done  none  of  the  things  which  he  had  planned 
to  do.  The  cathacJi  had  been  brought  for  nothing. 
Not  a  shot  had  been  fired.  The  martello  tower 
remained  untaken. 

When  he  ruminated  upon  these  things  he  grpund 
his  teeth  and  pressed  his  thin  lips  together.  It  was 
all  Linsky's  doing.  He  had  Linsky  safe  below,  how- 
ever. It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  this  fact  did 
not  turn  out  to  have  interesting  consequences;  but 
there  would  be  time  enough  later  on  to  deal  with 
that. 

The  presence  of  the  British  officer  was  of  more 
immediate  importance.  The  O'Mahony  walked 
again  past  the  capstan,  and  looked  his  prisoner  over 
askance.  He  was  a  tall  man,  well  on  in  the  thirties, 
slender,  yet  with  athletic  shoulders  ;  his  close- 
cropped  hair  and  short  moustache  were  of  the  color 
of  flax  ;  his  face  and  neck  were  weather-beaten  and 
browned.  The  face  was  a  good  one,  with  shapely 
features  and  a  straightforward  expression,  albeit, 
seen  now  at  its  worst,  under  a  scowl  and  the  smear 
of  the  rags.  After  much  hesitation  The  O'Mahony 
finally  made  up  his  mind  to  speak,  and  walked 
around  to  confront  the  officer  with  an  amiable  nod. 

"  S'pose  you're  jest  mad  through  an'  through  at 
bein'  grabbed  that  wa}'  an'  tied  up  like  a  calf  goin' 
to  market,  an'  run  out  in  that  sort  o'  style,"  he  said, 
in  a  cheerfully  confidential  tone.  "  I  know  Fd  be 
jest  bilin' !  But  I  hope  you  don't  bear  no  malice. 
It  Jiad  to  be  done,  an'  done  that  way,  too  !  You  kin 
see  that  yourself." 

The  Englishman  looked  up  with  surly  brevity  of 


The  Retreat  with  the  Prisoners.         141 

glance   at   the    speaker,  and    then    contemptuously 
turned  his  face  away.     He  said  never  a  word. 

The  O'Mahony  continued,  affably: 

**  One  thing  I'm  sorry  for:  It  was  pritty  rough 
to  have  your  mouth  stuffed  with  gun-wipers  ;  but^ 
really,  there  wasn't  anything  else  handy,  and  time 
was  pressin'.  Now  what  d'ye  say  to  havin'  a  drink 
— jest  to  reuse  the  taste  out  o'  yonv  mouth?" 

The  officer  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  hori- 
zon. His  lips  twitched  under  the  mustache  with  a 
movement  that  might  signify  temptation,  but  more 
probably  reflected  an  impulse  to  tell  his  questioner 
to  go  to  the  devil.  Whichever  it  was  he  said 
nothing. 

The  O'Mahony  spoke  again,  with  the  least  sus- 
picion of  acerbity  in  his  tone. 

"  See  here,"  he  said  ;  "  don't  flatter  3'ourself  that 
I'm  worryin'  much  whether  you  take  a  drink  or  not; 
an'  I'm  not  a  man  that's  much  given  to  takin' slack 
from  anybody,  whether  they  Avear  shoulder-straps 
or  not.  You're  my  pris'ner.  I  took  you — took  you 
myself,  an'  let  you  have  a  good  lively  rassle  for 
your  money.  It  wasn't  jest  open  an'  aboveboard, 
p'r'aps,  but  then  you  was  layin'  there  with  3^our 
men  hid,  dependin'  on  a  sneak  an'  a  traitor  to 
deliver  me  an'  my  fellows  into  3'our  hands.  So  it  's 
as  broad  as  'tis  long.  Only  I  don't  want  to  make  it 
especially  rough  for  you,  an'  I  thought  I'd  offer  3'ou 
a  drink,  an'  have  a  talk  with  3'ou  about  what's  to  be 
done  next.  But  if  3^ou're  too  mad  to  talk  or  drink, 
either,  why,  I  kin  wait  till  3'Ou  cool  down." 

Once  more  the  officer  looked  up,  and  this  time, 
after  some  hesitation,  he  spoke,  stiffl}^ : 


142  The  Return  of  The  O MaJioiiy. 

"  I  sJioiild  like  some  whisky  and  water,  if  you  have 
it — and  will  be  good  enough,"  he  said. 

The  O'Mahony  brought  the  beverage  from  below 
with  his  own  hand.  Then,  as  on  a  sudden  thought, 
he  took  out  his  knife,  knelt  down  and  cut  all  the 
cords  which  still  bound  the  other's  limbs. 

The  officer  got  gingerly  up  on  his  feet,  kicked 
his  legs  out  straight  and  stretched  his  arms. 

"  I  wish  you  had  done  that  before,"  he  said,  tak- 
ing the  glass  and  eagerly  drinking  off  the  contents. 

"  I  dunno  wh}'^  I  didn't  think  of  it,"  said  The 
O'Mahon}',  with  genuine  regret.  **  Fact  is,  1  had  so 
many  other  things  on  my  mind.  This  findin'  your- 
self sold  out  by  a  fellow  that  you  trusted  with  your 
life  is  enough  to  kerflummux  any  man," 

"  That  ought  not  to  surprise  any  Irishman,  1 
should  think,"  said  the  other,  curtly.  *'  However 
much  Irish  conspiracies  may  differ  in  other  respects, 
they're  invariably  alike  in  one  thing.  There's 
always  an  Irishman  who  sells  the  secret  to  the  gov- 
ernment." 

The  O'Mahony  made  no  immediate  answer. 
The  bitter  remark  had  suddenly  suggested  to  him 
the  possibility  that  all  the  other  movements  in  Cork 
and  Kerry,  planned  for  that  day,  had  also  been  be- 
trayed !  He  had  been  too  gravely  occupied  with 
his  own  concerns  to  give  this  a  thought  before.  As 
he  turned  the  notion  over  now  in  his  mind,  it 
assumed  the  form  of  a  settled  conviction  of  univer- 
sal treachery. 

"There's  a  darned  sight  o'  truth  in  what  you  say," 
he  assented,  seriousl}^  after  a  pause. 

The  tone  of  the  reply  took  the  English  officer  by 


TJic  Rcti'eat  ivitJi  tJie  Prisoners.         143 

surprise.  He  looked  up  with  more  interest,  and  the 
expression  of  cold  sulkiness  faded  from  his  face. 
"  You  got  off  with  great  luck,"  he  said.  "  If  they 
had  many  more  like  you.  perhaps  the}'  might  do 
something  worth  while.  You're  an  Irish-American, 
I  fancy?     And  you  have  seen  military  s'^rvice  ?'* 

The  O'Mahony  answered  both  questions  with  an 
affirmative  nod. 

"  Then  I'm  astonished,"  the  officer  went  on,  "  that 
you  and  men  like  you,  who  know  what  war  is  really 
like,  shoidd  come  over  here,  and  spend  your  money 
and  risk  your  lives  and  libert}',  without  the  hope  of 
doing  anything  more  than  cause  us  a  certain  amount 
of  bother.  As  a  soldier,  you  must  know  that  you 
have  no  earthly  chance  of  success.  The  odds  are 
ten  thousand  to  one  against  you." 

The  O'Mahony's  e)'es  permitted  themselves  a 
momentary  twinkle.  "Well,  now,  mister,"  he  said, 
carelessl}'  ;  "  I  dunno  so  much  about  that.  Take 
you  an'  me,  now,  f'r  instance,  jest  as  we  stand  :  I 
don't  reckon  that  bettin'  men  'u'd  precisely  tumble 
over  one  another  in  the  rush  to  put  their  money  on 
yoii.  Maybe  I'm  no  judge,  but  that's  the  way  it 
looks  to  me.  What  do  you  think  3'ourself,  now — 
honest  Injun  ?" 

The  Englishman  was  not  responsive  to  this  light 
view  of  the  situation.  He  frowned  again,  and  pet- 
tishly shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Of  course,  I  did  not  refer  to  that!''  he  said. 
"  My  misadventure  is  ridiculous  and — ah — person- 
ally inconvenient — but  it — ah — isn't  war.  You  take 
nothing  by  it." 

"  Oh,  yes — I've  taken  a  good  deal — too  much,  in 


144  ^'^^^  Rehtrn  of  TJie   O' Makoiiy. 

fact,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  going  off  into  a  brown 
study  over  the  burden  of  his  acquisitions  which  his 
words  conjured  up.  He  paced  up  and  down  beside 
his  prisoner  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  he  halted, 
and  turned  to  him  for  counsel. 

*'  What  do  3'ou  think,  yourself,  would  be  the  best 
thing  for  me  to  do  with  you,  now  't  I've  got  you  ?" 
he  asked, 

"  Oh — really  ! — really,  I  must  decline  to  advise 
with  you  upon  the  subject,"  the  other  replied, 
frostily. 

"  On  the  one  hand,"  mused  The  O'Mahony,  aloud, 
"  you  got  scooped  in  afore  you  had  time  to  fire  a 
shot,  or  do  any  mischief  at  all — so  't  we  don't  owe 
you  no  grudge,  so  to  speak.  Well,  that's  in  your 
favor.  And  then  there's  your  mouth  rammed  full 
of  gun- waste — that  ought  to  count  some  on  your 
side,  too." 

The  Englishman  looked  at  him,  curiosity  strug- 
gling with  dislike  in  his  glance,  but  said  nothing. 

"  On  t'  other  hand,"  pursued  The  O'Mahony, 
"  you  ain't  quite  a  prisoner  of  war,  because  you  was 
openly  dealin'  with  a  traitor  and  spy,  and  playin'  to 
come  the  gouge  game  over  me  an'  my  men.  That's 
a  good  deal  ag'in'  you.  For  sake  of  argument,  let's 
say  the  thing  is  a  saw-off,  so  far  as  what's  happened 
already  is  concerned.  The  big  question  is  :  What's 
goin'  to  happen  ?" 

"  Really — "  the  officer  began  again,  and  then 
closed  his  lips  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  the  other  went  on,  "  that's  where  the  shoe 
pinches.  I  s'pose  now,  if  I  was  to  land  you  on  the 
coast   yonder,  anywhere,  you    wouldn't  give   your 


TJie  Ret  J' eat   with  the  Prisoners.         145 

word  to  not  start  an  alarm  for  forty-eight  hours, 
would  you?" 

"Certainly  not!"  said  the  Englishman,  with 
prompt  decision. 

"  No,  I  thought  not.  Of  course,  the  alarm  's  been 
given  hours  ago,  but  your  men  didn't  see  me,  or  git 
enough  of  a  notion  of  my  outfit  to  make  their 
description  dangerous.     It's  different  with  you." 

The  officer  nodded  his  head  to  indicate  that  he 
was  becoming  interested  in  the  situation,  and  saw 
the  point. 

"  So  that  really  the  most  sensible  thing  I  could 
do,  for  myself  and  my  men,  *u'd  be  to  lash  you  to  a 
keg  of  lead  and  drop  you  overboard — wouldn't  it, 
now  ?" 

The  Englishman  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  middle 
distance  of  gently,  heaving  waters,  and  did  not 
answer  the  question.  The  O'Mahony,  watching  his 
unmoved  countenance  with  respect,  made  pretense 
of  waiting  for  a  reply,  and  leaned  idly  against  the 
capstan  to  fill  his  pipe.  After  a  long  pause  he  was 
forced  to  break  the  silence. 

"  It  sounds  rough,"  he  said  ;  "  but  it's  the  safest 
wa}'  out  of  the  thing.     Got  a  wife  an'  family  ?" 

The  officer  turned  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant  to 
scrowl  indignantly,  the  while  he  snapped  out: 

"  That's  none  of  your  d — d  business  !" 

Whistling  softly  to  himself,  with  brows  a  trifle 
lifted  to  express  surprise.  The  O'Mahony  walked 
the  whole  length  of  the  deck  and  back,  pondering 
this  reply  : 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  he  announced  at  last, 
upon  his  return.     "  We'll  land  you  in  an  hour  or  so 


146  The  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

— or  at  least  give  you  the  dingey  and  some  food  and 
drink,  and  let  you  row  yourself  in,  sa}-,  six  or  seven 
miles.  You  can  manage  it  all  right  before  nightfall 
— an'  I'll  take  my  chances  on  your  startin'  the  hue- 
an'-cry." 

"  Understand,  I  promise  nothing  !"  interposed  the 
other. 

"No,  that's  all  right,"  said  The  O'Mahony. 
"  Mind,  if  I  thought  there  was  any  wa}^  by  which 
you  was  likely  to  get  these  men  o'  mine  into  trouble, 
I'd  have  no  more  scruple  about  jumpin'  30U  inro  the 
water  there  than  I  would  about  pullin'a  fish  out  of  it. 
But,  as  I  figure  it  out,  they  don't  stand  in  any  dan- 
ger. As  for  me — well,  as  I  said,  I'll  take  my 
chances.  It  '11  make  me  a  heap  o'  trouble,  I  dare  say, 
but  I  deserve  that.  This  trip  o'  mine's  been  a  fool- 
performance  from  the  word  '  go,'  and  it's  only  fair  I 
should  pay  for  it." 

The  Englisliman  looked  up  at  the  yawl  rigging, 
taut  under  the  strain  of  filled  sails;  at  the  men  hud- 
dled together  forward  ;  last  of  all  at  his  captor. 
His  eyes  softened. 

"  You're  not  half  a  bad  sort,"  he  said,  "  in — ah — 
spite  of  the  gun-waste.  I  should  think  it  likely  that 
your  men  would  never  be  troubled,  if  they  go 
home,  and — ah — behave  sensibly." 

The  O'Mahony  nodded  as  if  a  pledge  had  been 
given. 

"  That's  what  I  want,"  he  said.  "  They  are 
simply  good  fellows  who  jest  went  into  this  thing 
on  my  account." 

*'  But  in  all  human  probability,"  the  officer  went 


The  Retreat  zvith  the  Prisoners.         14./ 

jn,  "j'ou  will  be  caught  and  punished.  It  will  be 
X  miracle  if  you  escape." 

The  O'Mahony  blew  smoke  from  his  pipe  with  an 
incredulous  grin,  and  the  other  went  on  : 

"  It  does  not  rest  alone  with  me,  I  assure  you.  A 
minute  detailed  description  of  your  person.  Captain 
Harrier,  has  been  in  our  possession  for  two  days." 

"  I-gad  !  that  reminds  me,"  broke  in  The 
O'Mahony,  his  face  darkening  as  he  spoke — "  the 
man  who  gave  you  that  name  and  that  description 
is  lyin'  down-stairs  with  a  cracked  skull." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  any  part  of  my  duty," 
said  the  officer  ;  "  to  interest  myself  in  that  person, 
or — ah — what  befalls  him." 

"  No,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  "  I  guess  not!  I  guess 
not  /" 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    REINTERMENT   OF   LINSKY. 

The  red  winter  sun  sank  to  hide  itself  below  the 
waste  of  Atlantic  waters  as  the  Hen  Hawk,  still  held 
snugly  in  the  grasp  of  the  breeze,  beat  round  the 
grim  cliffs  of  Three-Castle  Head,  and  entered  Dun- 
manus  Ba}'.  The  Englishman  had  been  set  adrift 
hours  before,  and  by  this  time,  no  doubt,  the  tele- 
graph had  spread  to  every  remotest  point  on  the 
Southern  and  Western  coast  warning  descriptions 
of  the  vessel  and  its  master.  Perhaps  even  now" 
their  winged  flight  into  the  west  was  being  followed 
from  Cape  Clear,  which  la}'  behind  them  in  the  mistv 
and  darkening  distance.  Still  the  Hen  Hawk's 
course  was  confidently  shaped  homeward,  for  many 
miles  of  bog  and  moorland  separated  Muirisc  from 
any  electric  current. 

The  O'Mahony  had  hung  in  meditative  solitude 
over  the  tiller  for  hours,  watching  the  squatting 
groups  of  retainers  playing  silently  at  "  spoil-five  " 
on  the  forward  deck,  and  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
thousand  and  one  confused  and  clashing  thoughts 
which  this  queer  new  situation  suggested.  As  the 
[148] 


The  Reintennent  of  Liiisky.  14.9 

sun  went  down  he  called  to  Jerry,  and  the  two, 
standing-  togethei"  at  the  stern,  looked  upon  the 
great  ball  of  fire  descending  behind  the  gray  expanse 
of  trackless  waters,  without  a  word.  Rude  and 
untutored  as  they  were,  both  were  conscious,  in 
some  vague  way,  that  when  this  sun  should  rise 
again  their  world  would  be  a  different  thing. 

"Well,  pard,"  said  the  master,  when  only  a  bar 
of  flaming  orange  marked  where  the  day  had  gone, 
*'  it  '11  be  a  considerable  spell,  1  reckon,  afore  1  see 
that  sort  o'  thing  in  these  waters  again." 

"  Is  it  I'avin'  the  country  we  are,  thin  ?"  asked 
Jerry,  in  a  sympathetic  voice. 

"No,  not  exactly.  You'll  stay  here.  But  /cut 
sticks  to-morrow." 

"  Sure,  then,  it's  not  alone  3^e'll  be  goin'.  Egor ! 
man,  didn't  I  take  me  Bible-oath  niver  to  I'ave  yeh, 
the  longest  day  ye  lived  ?  Ah — now,  don't  be 
talkin' !" 

"  That's  all  right,  Jerry — but  it's  got  to  be  that 
way,"  replied  The  O'Mahony,  in  low  regretful 
tones.  "  I've  figured  it  all  out.  It  '11  be  mighty 
tough  to  go  off  by  myself  without  you,  pard,  but  I 
can't  leave  the  thing  without  somebody  to  run  it 
for  me,  and  you  are  the  only  one  that  fills  the  bill. 
Now  don't  kick  about  it,  or  make  a  fuss,  or  think 
I'm  using  you  bad.  Jest  say  to  yourself — '  Now 
he's  my  friend,  an'  I'm  his'n,  and  if  he  says  I  can  be 
of  most  use  to  him  here,  why  that  settles  it.'  Take 
the  helm  for  a  minute,  Jerry.  I  want  to  go  for'ard 
an'  say  a  word  to  the  men." 

The  O'Mahony  looked  down  upon  the  unintelli- 
gible game  being  pla^^ed  with  cards  so  dirty  that  he 


150  The  Return  of  The   G  Mahoiiy. 

could  not  tell  them  apart,  and  worn  by  years  of  use 
to  the  shape  of  an  Q^%,  and  waited  with  a  musing 
smile  on  his  face  till  the  deal  was  exhausted.  The 
players  and  onlookers  formed  a  compact  group  at 
his  knees,  and  they  still  sat  or  knelt  or  lounged  on 
the  deck  as  they  listened  to  his  words. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  in  the  gravely  gentle  tone  which 
somehow  he  had  learned  in  speaking  to  these  men 
of  Muirisc,  "  I've  been  tellin'  Jerry  somethin'  that 
)'Ou've  got  a  right  to  know,  too.  I'm  goin'  to  light 
out  to-morrow — that  is,  quit  Ireland  for  a  spell.  It 
may  be  for  a  good  while — maybe  not.  That  depends. 
I  hate  like  the  very  devil  to  go — but  it's  better  for 
me  to  skip  than  to  be  lugged  off  to  jail,  and  tlicn  to 
state's  prison — better  for  me  an'  better  for  you.  If 
I  get  out,  the  rest  of  you  won't  be  bothered.  Now 
— hold  on  a  minute  till  I  git  through  ! — now  between 
us  we've  fixed  up  Muirisc  so  that  it's  a  good  deal 
easier  to  live  there  than  it  used  to  be.  There'll  be 
more  mines  opened  up  soon,  an'  the  lobster  fact'ry 
an'  the  fishin'  are  on  a  good  footin*  now.  I'm  goin' 
to  leave  Jerry  to  keep  track  o'  things,  along  with 
O'Daly,  an'  they'll  let  me  know  regular  how  matters 
are  workin',  so  you  won't  suffer  by  my  not  bein' 
here." 

"  Ah — thin — it's  our  hearts  '11  be  broken  entirely 
wid  the  grief,"  wailed  Dominic,  and  the  others,  seiz- 
ing this  note  of  woe  as  their  key,  broke  forth  in  a 
chorus  of  lamentation. 

They  scrambled  to  their  feet  with  uncovered 
heads, and  clustered  about  him,  jostling  one  another 
for  possession  of  his  hands,  and  affectionately  pat- 
ting  his   shoulders   and    stroking    his   sleeves,    the 


The  Reinterment  of  Linsky.  151 

while  they  strove  to  express  in  their  own  tongue, 
or  in  the  poetic  phrases  they  had  fashioned  for  them- 
selves out  of  a  practical  foreign  language,  the 
sincerity  of  their  sorrow.  But  the  Irish  peasant  has 
been  schooled  through  many  generations  to  face  the 
necessity  o(  exile,  and  to  view  the  breaking  of  house- 
holds, the  separation  of  kinsmen,  the  recurring 
miseries  attendant  upon  an  endless  exodus  across 
the  seas,  with  the  philosophy  of  the  inevitable. 
None  of  these  men  dreamed  of  attempting  to  dis- 
suade The  O'Mahony  from  his  purpose,  and  they 
listened  with  melancholy  nods  of  comprehension 
when  he  had  secured  silence,  and  spoke  again  : 

"You  can  all  see  that  it's^<7/  to  be,"  he  said,  in 
conclusion.  "  And  now  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
this:  1  don't  expect  you'll  have  trouble  with  the 
police.  They  won't  get  over  from  Balleydehob  for 
another  day  or  two — and  by  that  time  I  shall  be 
gone,  and  the  Hen  Hazvk,  too — an'  if  they  bring  over 
the  dingey  I  gave  the  Englishman  to  land  in,  why,  of 
course  there  won't  be  a  man,  woman  or  child  in 
Muirisc  that  ever  laid  eyes  on  it  before." 

"  Sure,  Heaven  'u'd  blast  the  eyes  that  'u'd  recog- 
nize that  same  boat,"  said  one,  and  the  others  mur- 
mured their  confidence  in  the  hypothetical  miracle. 

"  Well,  then,  what  1  want  you  to  promise  is  this  : 
That  you'll  go  on  as  you  have  been  doin',  workin' 
hard,  keepin'  sober,  an'  behavin'  yourselves,  an'  that 
you'll  mind  what  Jerry  says,  same  as  if  I  said  it  my- 
self. An'  more  than  that— an'  now  this  is  a  thing 
I'm  specially  sot  on — that  you'll  look  upon  that  little 
gal,  Kate  O'Mahony,  as  if  she  was  a  daughter  of 
mine,  an'  watch    over  her,  an'  make  things  pleasant 


152  The  Rettirn  of  The  O Mahony. 

for  her,  an' — an'  treat  iier  like  the  apple  of  your 
eye." 

If  there  was  an  apple  in  The  O'Mahony's  eye,  it 
was  for  the  moment  hidden  in  a  vail  of  moisture. 
The  faces  of  the  men  and  their  words  alike 
responded  to  his  emotion. 

Then  one  of  them,  a  lean  and  unkempt  old  mar- 
iner, who  even  in  this  keen  February  air  kept  his 
hairy  breast  and  corded,  sunburnt  throat  exposed, 
and  whose  hawk-like  eyes  had  flashed  through  fifty 
years  of  taciturnity  over  heaven  knows  what  wild 
and  fantastic  dreams  born  of  the  sea,  spoke  up : 

"  Sir,  by  your  I'ave,  I'll  mesilf  be  her  bod3'gyard 
and  her  servant,  and  tache  her  the  wather  as  befits 
her  blood,  and  keep  the  very  sole  of  her  fut  from 
harrum." 

"  Right  you  are,  Murphy,"  said  The  O'Mahony. 
"  Make  that  your  job." 

No  one  remembered  ever  having  heard  Murphy 
speak  so  much  at  one  time  before.  To  the  surprise 
of  the  group,  he  had  still  more  to  say. 

"  And,  sir — I'm  not  askin'  it  be  way  of  ricom- 
pinse,"  the  fierce-faced  old  boatman  went  on — "  but 
w'u'd  your  honor  grant  us  wan  requist  ?" 

'•  You've  only  got  to  spit  'er  out,"  was  the  hearty 
response. 

"Thin,  sir,  give  us  over  the  man  ye've  got  down 
stairs." 

The  O'Mahony's  face  changed  its  expression.  He 
thought  for  a  moment ;  then  asked  : 

"  What  to  do  ?" 

"  To  dale  wid  this  night  !"  said  Murphy,  sol- 
emnly. 


The  Reinter incut  of  Liiisky.  153 

There  was  a  pause  of  silence,  and  then  the  clamor 
of  a  dozen  eager  voices  chishing  one  against  the 
other  in  the  cold  wintry  twilight: 

"  Give  him  over,  O'Mahony  !"  "  L'ave  him  to 
us  !"  "  Don't  be  soilin'  yer  own  hands  wid  the 
likes  of  him  !"  *'  Oh,  l'ave  him  to  us  !"  these  voices 
pleaded. 

The  O'Mahony  hesitated  for  a  minute,  then  slow- 
ly shook  his  head. 

"  No,  boys,  don't  ask  it,"  he  said.  "  I'd  like  to 
oblige  you,  but  1  can't.  He's  my  meat — I  can't  give 
him  up !" 

"  W'u'd  yer  honor  be  for  sparin'  him,  thin?" 
asked  one,  with  incredulity  and  surprise. 

The  O'Mahony  of  Muirisc  looked  over  the  excited 
group  which  surrounded  him,  dimly  recognizing 
the  strangeness  of  the  weirdly  interwoven  qualities 
which  run  in  the  blood  of  Heber — the  soft  tender- 
ness of  nature  which  through  tears  would  swear 
loyalty  unto  death  to  a  little  child,  shifting  on  the 
instant  to  the  ferocity  of  the  wolf-hound  burying 
its  jowl  in  the  throat  of  its  quarry.  Beyond  them 
were  gathering  the  sea  mists,  as  by  enchantment 
the}^  had  gathered  ages  before  with  vain  intent 
to  baffle  the  sons  of  Milesius,  and  faintly  in  the  half- 
light  lowered  the  beetling  cliffs  whereon  The 
O'Mahonys,  true  sons  of  those  sea-rovers,  had 
crouched  watching  for  their  prey  this  thousand  of 
years.  He  could  almost  feel  the  ancestral  taste  of 
blood  in  his  mouth  as  he  looked,  and  thought  upon 
his  answer. 

"  No,  don't  worry  about  his  gitting  off,"  he  said, 
at  last.     "  I'll  take  care  of  that.     You'll  never  see 


154  ^''^''?  Return  of  The  O' Mahony. 

him  again — no  one  on  top  of  this  earth  '11  ever  lay 
eyes  on  him  again." 

With  visible  reluctance  the  men  forced  themselves 
to  accept  this  compromise.  The  He^i  Hazuk  plunged 
doggedly  along  up  the  bay. 


Three  hours  later,  The  O'Mahony  and  Jerry,  not 
without  much  stumbling  and  difificult}^  reached  the 
strange  subterranean  chamber  where  they  had 
found  the  mummy  of  the  monk.  They  bore 
between  them  the  inert  body  of  a  man,  whose  head 
was  enveloped  in  bandages,  and  whose  hands,  hang- 
ing limp  at  arm's  length,  were  discolored  with  the 
grime  and  mold  from  the  stony  path  over  which 
they  had  dragged.  They  threw  this  burden  on  the 
mediaeval  bed,  and,  drawing  long  breaths  of  relief, 
turned  to  light  some  candles  in  addition  to  the 
lantern  Jerry  had  borne,  and  to  kindle  a  fire  on  the 
hearth. 

They  talked  in  low  murmurs  meanwhile.  The 
O'Mahony  had  told  Jerry  something  of  what  part 
Linsky  had  played  in  his  life.  Jerry,  without  being 
informed  with  more  than  the  general  outlines  of  the 
story,  was  able  swiftly  to  comprehend  his  master's 
attitude  toward  the  man — an  attitude  compounded 
of  hatred  for  his  treachery  of  to-day  and  gratitude 
of  the  services  which  he  had  unconsciously  per- 
formed in  the  past.  He  understood  to  a  nicety,  too, 
what  possibilities  there  were  in  the  plan  which  The 
O'Mahony  now  unfolded  to  him,  as  the  fire  began 
crackling  up  the  chimney. 

"  I  can  answer  for  his  gittin'  over  that  crack  in 


The  Reinterment  of  Lmsky.  155 

the  head,"  said  The  O'Mahon}^  heating  and  stirring 
a  tin  cup  full  of  balsam  over  the  flame.  "  Once  I've 
fixed  this  bandage  on,  we  can  bring  him  to  with 
ammonia  and  whisky,  an'  give  him  some  brotli. 
He'll  live  all  right — an'  he'll  live  right  here,  d'ye 
mind.  Whatever  else  happens,  he's  never  to  git 
outside,  an'  he's  never  to  know  where  he  is. 
Nobody  but  you  is  to  so  much  as  dream  of  his  bein' 
down  here — be  as  mum  as  an  oyster  about  it,  won't 
you  ?  You  're  to  have  sole  charge  of  him,  d'ye  see 
— the  only  human  being  he  ever  lays  eyes  on." 

"Egor!  I'll  improve  his  moind  wid  grand  dis- 
courses on  trayson  and  informin'  an'  betrayin'  his 
oath,  and  the  like  o*  that,  till  he'll  be  fit  to  die  wid 
shame." 

"  No — I  dunno — p'r'aps  it  'd  be  better  not  to  let 
him  know  we  know — jest  make  him  think  we  're  his 
friends,  hidin'  him  away  from  the  police.  However, 
that  can  take  care  of  itself.  Say  whatever  you  like 
to  him,  only — " 

"  Only  don't  lay  a  hand  on  him — is  it  that  ye  were 
thinkin'?"  broke  in  Jerry. 

"  Yes,  don't  lick  him,"  said  The  O'Mahony.  "  He's 
had  about  the  worst  bat  on  the  head  I  ever  saw  a 
a  man  git  an'  live,  to  start  with.  No — be  decent 
with  him,  an'  give  him  enough  to  eat.  Might  let 
him  have  a  moderate  amount  o'  drink,  too." 

"  I  suppose  there  '11  be  a  great  talk  about  his  van- 
ishin'  out  o'  sight  all  at  wance  among  the  Brother- 
hood," suggested  Jerry. 

"  That  don't  matter  a  darn,"  said  the  other.  "  Jest 
you  go  ahead,  an'  tend  to  3'our  own  knittin',  an'  let 
the  Brotherhood  whistle.     We've  paid  a  good  stiff 


156  The  Return  of  TJic  G Mahoiiy. 

price  to  learn  what  Fenianisra  is  worth,  and  we've 
learned  enough.  Not  any  more  on  my  plate,  thankee ! 
Jest  give  the  bo3'Sthe  word  that  the  jig  is  up — that 
there  won't  be  any  more  drillin'  or  meanderin' 
round  generally.     And  speakin'  o'  drink — " 

A  noise  from  the  curtained  bed  in  the  alcove 
interrupted  The  O'Mahony's  remarks  upon  this 
important  subject.  Turning,  the  two  men  saw  that 
Linsky  had  risen  on  the  couch  to  a  half-sitting  pos- 
ture, and,  with  a  tremulous  hand,  drawing  aside  the 
fcU-iike  draperies,  was  staring  wildly  at  them  out  of 
blood-shot  eyes. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  what  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  a 
faint  and  moaning  voice. 

"  Lay  down  there  ! — quick  !"  called  out  The 
O'Mahony,  sternly  ;  and  Linsky  fell  back  prone 
without  a  protest. 

The  O'Mahony  had  finished  melting  his  gum,  and 
he  spread  it  now  salve-like  upon  a  cloth.  Then  he 
walked  over  to  where  the  wounded  man  lay,  with 
marvel-stricken  eyes  wandering  over  the  archaic 
vaulted  ceiling. 

"  Is  it  dead  I  am  ?"  he  groaned,  with  a  vacuous 
glance  at  the  new-comer. 

"  No,  you've  been  badly  hurt  in  battle,"  said  the 
other,  in  curt  tones.  "  We  can  pull  you  through, 
perhaps  ;  but  you've  got  to  shut  up  an'  lay  still. 
Hold  your  head  this  way  a  little  more — that's  it." 

The  injured  man  submitted  to  the  operation,  for 
the  most  part,  with  apparently  closed  eyes,  but  his 
next  remark  showed  that  he  had  been  gathering  his 
wits  together. 

"  And  how's  the  battle  gone,  Captain  Harrier?" 


The  Reinterment  of  Linsky.  157 

he    suddenly    asked.     "  Is    Oireland    free    from  the 
oppressor  at  last?" 

"No!"  said  The  O'Mahony,  with  dry  brevity — 
"  but  she'll  be  free  from  you  for  a  spell,  or  I  miss  my 
guess  most  consumedly." 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"TAKE   ME   WITH   YOU,    O'MAHONY." 

The  fair-weather  promise  of  the  crimson  sunset 
was  not  kept.  The  morning  broke  bloodshot  and 
threatening,  witli  dark,  jagg-ed  storm-clouds  scud- 
ding angrily  across  the  sky,  and  a  truculent  unrest 
moving  the  waters  of  the  bay  to  lash  out  at  the 
rocks,  and  snarl  in  rising  murmurs  among  them- 
selves. 

Every  soul  in  Muirisc  came  soon  enough  to  share 
this  disquietude  with  the  elements.  Such  evil  tid- 
ings as  these,  that  The  O'Mahony  was  quitting  the 
country,  seemed  veritably  to  take  to  themselves 
wings.  The  village,  despite  the  fact  that  the  fishing 
season  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  that  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do,  could  not  lie  abed  on  such  a 
morning,  much  less  sleep.  Even  the  tiniest  children, 
routed  out  from  their  nests  of  strau^  close  beside  the 
chimney  by  the  unwonted  bustle,  saw  that  some- 
thing was  the  matter. 

Mrs.  Fergus  O'J^Iahony  heard  the  intelligence  at 
a  somewhat  later  hour,  even  as  she  dallied  with  that 
second  cup  of  coffee,  which,  in  her  own  phrase,  put 
[158J 


"  Take  me  ivith  yoit,    OMahojiy."        159 

a  tail  to  the  breakfast.  It  was  brought  to  her  by  a 
messeng-er  from  the  convent,  who  came  to  say  that 
the  Ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears  desired  her 
immediate  presence  upon  an  urgent  matter.  Mrs. 
Fergus  easily  enough  put  two  and  two  together,  as 
she  donned  her  bonnet  and  ^r<?<f/// shawl.  It  was  The 
O'JNIahony's  departure  that  was  to  be  discussed,  and 
the  nuns  were  right  in  calling  that  important.  She 
looked  critically  over  the  irregular  walls  of  the 
castle,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  wa)'  to  the  convent. 
Here  she  had  been  born  ;  here  she  had  lived  in  peace 
and  plent}',  after  her  brother's  death,  until  the  heir 
from  America  came  to  turn  her  out.  Who  knew? 
Perhaps  she  was  to  go  back  again,  after  all.  Mrs. 
Fergus  agreed  that  the  news  was  highly  important. 

The  first  glance  which  she  threw  about  her,  after 
she  had  been  ushered  in  the  reception-hall,  revealed 
to  her  that  not  even  she  had  guessed  the  full  im- 
portance of  what  was  toward. 

The  three  nuns  sat  on  their  accustomed  bench  at 
one  side  of  the  fire,  and  behind  them,  in  his  familiar 
chimney-corner,  palsied  old  Father  Harrington 
lolled  and  half-dozed  over  the  biscuit  he  was  nib- 
bling to  stay  his  stomach  after  mass.  At  the  table, 
before  a  formidable  array  of  papers,  was  seated 
Cormac  O'Daly,  and  at  his  side  sat  the  person 
whose  polite  name  seemed  to  be  Diarmid  MacEgan, 
but  whom  Muirisc  knew  and  delighted  in  as  Jerry. 
Mrs.  Fergus  made  a  mental  note  of  surprise  at  see- 
ing him  seated  in  such  company,  and  then  carried 
her  gaze  on  to  cover  the  principal  personage  in 
the  room.  It  was  The  O'Mahony,  looking  very 
grave    and    preoccupied,  and    who    stood  leaning 


i6o  The  Rehirn  of  The  GMahony. 

against  the  chimney-mantel  like  a  proprietor,  who 
welcomed  her  with  a  nod  and  motioned  her  to  a 
seat. 

It  was  he,  too,  who  broke  the  silence  which  sol- 
emnly enveloped  the  conference. 

"  Cousin  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  explanation,  to  her, 
"  we've  got  together  this  little  family  part3^so  early 
in  the  mornin'  for  the  reason  that  time  is  precious. 
I'm  goin'  awa}^ — for  my  health — in  an  hour  or  two, 
an'  there  are  things  to  be  arranged  before  I  go.  I 
may  be  away  for  years;  maybe  1  sha'n't  ever  come 
back." 

"  Sure  the  suddenness  of  it's  fit  to  take  one's 
breath  away!"  Mrs.  Fergus  exclaimed,  and  put  her 
plump  white  hand  to  her  bosom.  "  I've  nerves  that 
bad,  O'Mahony,"  she  added. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  sudden  sort  of  spurt,"  he  assented. 

"  And  it's  your  health,  you  say  !  Sure,  I  used  to 
look  on  you  as  the  mortial  picture  of  a  grand,  strong 
man." 

"You  can't  always  tell  by  looks,"  said  The 
O'Mahony,  gravely.  "  But — the  point  's  this.  I'm 
leaving  O'Daly  and  Jerry  here,  as  sort  o'  joint 
bosses  of  the  circus,  during  my  absence.  Daly  is  to 
be  ringmaster,  so  to  speak,  while  Jerry  '11  be  in  the 
box-office,  and  kind  o*  keep  an  eye  to  the  whole 
show,  generally." 

"  I  lamint,  sir,  that  I'm  not  able  to  congratulate 
you  on  the  felicity  of  your  mettyphor,''  said  Cor- 
mac  0"Daly,  whose  swart,  thin-visaged  little  face 
wore  an  expression  more  glum  than  ever. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  git  at  my  meaning.  I  have 
signed  two  powers  of  attorney,  drawn  up  by  O'Daly 


"  Take  vie  with  you,    O MaJionyy        i6i 

here  as  a  lawyer,  which  gives  them  power  to  run 
things  for  me,  while  I'm  away.  Everything  is  set 
out  in  the  papers,  straight  and  square.  I'm  leaving 
my  will,  too,  with  O'Daly,  an'  that  I  wanted  speci- 
ally to  speak  to  you  about.  I've  got  just  one  heir 
in  this  whole  world,  an'  that's  your  little  gal,  Katie. 
P'r'aps  it  'II  be  as  well  not  to  say  anything  to  her 
about  it,  but  I  want  you  all  to  know.  An'  1  want 
you  an'  her  to  move  back  into  my  house,  an  'live 
there  jest  as  you  did  afore  I  come.  I've  spoken  to 
Mrs.  Sullivan  about  it — she's  as  good  as  a  farrow 
cow  in  a  family — an'  she'll  stay  right  along  with  you, 
an'  look  after  things.  An'  Jerry  here,  he'll  see  that 
your  wheels  are  kept  greased — financially,  I  mean — 
an' — I  guess  that's  about  all.  Only  look  out  for  that 
little  gal  o'  yours  as  well  as  you  know  how — that's 
all.  An'  I  wish — I  wish  you'd  send  her  over  to  me, 
to  my  house,  in  half  an  hour  or  so — jest  to  say 
good-bye." 

The  O'Mahony's  voice  had  trembled  under  the 
suspicion  of  a  quaver  at  the  end.  He  turned  now, 
abruptly,  took  up  his  hat  from  the  table,  and  left 
the  room,  closely  followed  by  Jerry.  O'Daly  rose 
as  if  to  accompany  them,  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  then  seated  himself  again. 

The  mother  superior  had  heretofore  preserved  an 
absolute  silence.  She  bent  her  glance  now  upon 
Mrs.  Fergus,  and  spoke  slowly  : 

"  Ah,  thin,  Margaret  O'Mahony,"  she  said,  "  d'ye 
mind  in  your  day  of  good  fortune  that,  since  the 
hour  you  were  born,  ye've  been  the  child  of  our 
prayers  and  the  object  of  our  ceaseless  interces- 
sions ?" 


1 62  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

Mrs.  Fergus  put  out  her  rounded  lower  lip  a 
little  and,  rising  from  her  chair,  walked  slowly  over 
to  the  little  cracked  mirror  on  the  wall,  to  run  a 
correcting  finger  over  the  escalloped  line  of  her 
crimps. 

"  Ay,  "  she  said  at  last,  "  I  mind  many  things 
bechune  me  and  you — not  all  of  thim  prayers 
either." 


While  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  Jerry  were  hard  at 
work  packing  the  scant  wardrobe  and  meager  per- 
sonal belongings  of  the  master  for  his  journey,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  population  of  Muirisc  stood 
clustered  on  the  little  qua}'^,  watching  the  Hen  Hawk, 
bemoaning  their  own  impending  bereavement,  and 
canvassing  the  incredible  good  luck  of  Malach}-, 
who  was  to  be  the  companion  in  this  voyage  to 
unknown  parts — while  the  wind  rose  outside,  and 
the  waters  tumbled,  and  the  sky  grew  overcast  with 
the  sullen  menace  of  a  winter  storm — The  O'Mahon}- 
walked  slowly,  hand  in  hand  with  little  Kate, 
through  the  deserted  churchyard. 

The  girl  had  been  weeping,  and  the  tears  still 
blurred  her  eyes  and  stained  her  red  cheeks  with 
woe-begone  smudges.  She  clung  to  her  com- 
panion's hand,  and  pressed  her  head  ever  and  again 
against  his  arm,  but  words  she  had  none.  The  man 
walked  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground  and  his  lips 
tightly  closed  together.  So  the  two  strolled  in 
silence  till  they  had  passed  out  from  the  place  of 
tombs,  and,  following  a  path  which  wound  its  way 


"  Take  me  with  yo7i,    O' Mahojiy."        i6 


vD 


miniature  defiles  among  the  rocks,  had  gained  the 
summit  of  the  cliff-wall,  under  whose  shelter  the 
hamlet  of  Muirisc  had  for  ages  nestled.  Here  they 
halted,  looking  down  upon  the  gray  ruins  of  castle, 
church  and  convent,  upon  thatched  cottage  roofs, 
the  throng  on  the  quay,  the  breakers'  line  of  foam 
against  the  rocks,  and  the  darkened  expanse  of 
white-capped  waters  beyond. 

"  Don't  take  on  so,  sis,  any  more ;  that's  a  good 
gal,"  said  The  O'Mahony,  at  last,  drawing  the  child's 
head  to  his  side,  and  gently  stroking  her  black  hair. 
"  It  ain't  no  good,  an'  it  breaks  me  all  up.  One 
thing  I'm  glad  of :  It's  going  to  be  rough  outside. 
It  seems  to  me  I  couldn't  'a'  stood  it  to  up  an'  sail 
off  in  smooth,  sunshiny  weather.  The  higher  she 
rolls  the  better  I'll  like  it.  It's  the  same  as  havin' 
somethin'  to  bite  on,  when  you've  got  the  tooth- 
ache." 

Kate,  for  answer,  rubbed  her  head  against  his 
sleeve,  but  said  nothing. 

.  After  a  long  pause,  he  went  on  :  "  'Tain't  as  if  I 
jlivas  goin'  to  be  gone  forever  an'  a  day.  Why,  I 
may  be  poppin'  in  any  minit,  jest  when  you  least 
expect  it.  That's  why  I  want  you  to  study  your 
lessons  right  along,  every  day,  so  't  when  I  turn  up 
you'll  be  able  to  show  off  A  number  one.  Maybe 
you  're  bankin'  on  my  not  bein'  able  to  tell  whether 
your  book  learnin'  is  *  all  wool  an'  a  yard  wide'  or 
not.  I  didn't  get  much  of  a  show  at  school,  I  know. 
'Twas  '  root  hog  or  die  '  with  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
But  I'm  jest  a  terror  at  askin'  questions.  Why,  I've 
busted  up  whole  schools  afore  now,  puttin'  conun- 


164  The  Return  of  The   O' Mahony. 

drums  to  'm  that  even  the  school-ma'ams  couldn't 
answer.     So  you  look  out  for  me  when  I  come." 

The  gentle  effort  at  cheerfulness  bore  fruit  not 
after  its  kind.  Kate's  little  breast  began  to  heave, 
and  she  buried  her  face  against  his  coat. 

The  O'Mahony  looked  wistfully  down  upon  the 
village  and  the  bay,  patting  the  child's  shoulder  in 
silent  token  of  sj'mpathy.  Then  an  idea  occurred 
to  him.  With  his  finger  under  her  chin,  he  lifted 
Kate's  face  till  her  glance  met  hi:. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  with  animation,"  have 
you  got  so  you  can  write  pritty  good  ?" 

The  girl  nodded  her  head,  and  looked  away. 

"  Why,  then,  look  here,"  he  exclaimed,  heartily, 
"  what's  the  matter  with  your  writin'  me  real  letters, 
sa}'^  every  few  weeks,  tellin'  me  all  that's  goin'  on. 
an'  keepin'  me  posted  rigiit  up  to  date?  Why, 
that's  jest  splendid  !  It'll  be  almost  the  same  as  if 
I  wasn't  away  at  all.     Eh,  won't  it,  skeezucks,  eh?" 

He  playfully  put  his  arm  around  her  shoulder, 
and  they  began  the  descent  of  the  path.  The  sug- 
gestion had  visibly  helped  to  lighten  her  little  heart, 
though  she  had  said  not  a  word. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  went  on,  "an'  another  thing  I 
wanted  to  say:  It  ain't  a  thing  that  you  must  ever 
ask  about — or  ought  to  know  anything  about  it — 
but  we  went  out  yisterday  an'  made  fools  of  our- 
selves, an'  if  I  hadn't  had  the  luck  of  a  brindled 
heifer,  we  'd  all  been  in  jail  to  da3\  Of  course,  I 
don't  know  for  certain,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
my  luck  had  something  to  do  with  a — what  d'ye 
call  it  ? — yes,  cathach — that  we  toted  along  with  us. 
\yell,  I'm   goin'  to   turn  that  box  over  for  you  to 


"  Take  uie  with  you,    O Mdluniyy        165 

keep,  when  we  git  down  to  the  house.  1  wouldn't 
open  if  it  I  was  you — it  ain't  a  pritt}'  sight  for  a  little 
gal — just  a  few  dead  men's  bones — but  the  box  itself 
is  all  right,  an'  it  can't  do  3'ou  no  harm,  to  say  the 
least.  K\\\  moreover — why,  here  it  is  in  my  pocket 
— here's  a  ring  we  found  on  his  thumb — cur'ous 
enough — that  you  must  keep  for  me,  too.  That 
makes  it  like  what  we  read  about  in  the  story-books, 
eh  ?  A  ring  that  the  beauteous  damsel,  with  the 
hay-colored  hair,  sends  to  Alonzo  when  she  gets  in 
trouble,  eh,  sis  ?" 

The  child  took  the  ring — a  quaintly  shaped  thin 
band  of  gold,  with  a  carved  precious  stone  of  golden- 
brownish  hue — and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  Still  she 
said  nothing. 


At  ten  in  the  forenoon,  in  the  presence  of  all 
Muirisc,  The  O'Mahon}^  at  last  gently  pushed  his 
way  through  the  throng  of  keening  old  women  and 
excited  younger  friends,  and  stepped  over  the  gun- 
wale upon  the  deck,  and  Jerry  and  O'Daly  restrained 
those  who  would  have  foHovved  him.  He  had  forced 
his  face  into  a  half-smile,  to  which  he  clung  reso- 
lutely almost  to  the  end.  He  had  offered  many 
parting  injunctions:  to  work  hard  and  drink  little  ; 
to  send  the  cliildren  to  school;  to  keep  an  absolute 
silence  to  all  outsiders,  whether  from  Skull,  Goleen, 
Crookhaven,  or  elsewhere,  concerning  him  and  his 
departure — and  many  other  things.  He  had  shaken 
hands  a  hundred  times  across  the  narrow  bar  of 
water  between  the  boat  and  pier  ;  and  now  the  men 
in  the  dingey  out  in  front  had  the  hawser  taut,  and 
the  Hen  Hawk  was  moving  under  its  strain,  when  a 


1 66  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

shrill  cry  raised  itself  above  the  general  clamor  of 
lamentation  and  farewells. 

At  that  moment  of  the  vessel's  stirring,  little  Kate 
O'Mahony  broke  from  the  group  in  which  her 
mother  and  the  nuns  stood  digniliedl}'  apart,  and 
ran  wildly  to  the  pier's  edge,  where  Jerry  caught 
and  for  the  moment  held  her,  struggling,  over  the 
widening  chasm  between  the  boat  and  the  quay. 
Her  power  to  speak  had  come  at  last. 

"  Take  me  with  you,  O'Mahony  !"  she  cried,  fight- 
ing like  a  wild  thing  to  free  herself.  "  Oh,  take  me 
with  3'ou  !  You  promised!  You  promised!  Take 
me  with  you  !" 

It  was  then  that  The  O' Mahony 's  face  lost,  in  a 
flash,  its  perfunctory  smile.  He  half  stretched  out 
his  hand — then  swung  himself  on  his  heel  and 
marched  to  the  prow  of  the  vessel.  He  did  not 
look  back  again  upon  Muirisc. 


An  hour  later  a  police-car,  bearing  five  armed 
men,  halted  at  the  point  on  the  mountain-road  from 
Durrus  where  Muirisc  comes  first  in  view.  The 
constables,  gazing  out  upon  the  broad  expanse  of 
Dunmanus  Bay,  saw  on  the  distant  water-line  a 
yawl-rigged  coasting  vessel,  white  against  the 
stormy  sk}^  Some  chance  whim  suggested  to  their 
minds  an  interest  in  this  craft. 

But  when  they  descended  into  Muirisc  they  could 
not  find  a  soul  who  had  the  remotest  notion  of  what 
a  yawl-rig  meant,  much  less  of  the  identity  of  the 
lugger  which,  even  as  they  spoke,  had  passed  out 
of  sight. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE   LADY   OF   MUIRISC. 

In  the  parish  of  Kihiioe — which  they  pronounce 
with  a  soft  prolonged  "  moo-h,"  like  the  murmuring 
call  of  one  of  their  little  bright-eyed,  black-coated 
cows — the  inhabitants  are  wont  to  say  that  the  next 
parish  is  America. 

It  is  an  ancient  and  sterile  and  storm-beaten  par- 
ish, this  Kilmoe,  thrust  out  in  expiation  of  some 
forgotten  sin  or  other  to  exist  beyond  the  pale  of 
human  companionship.  Its  sons  and  daughters, 
scattered  in  tiny,  isolated  hamlets  over  its  barren 
area,  hear  never  a  stranger's  voice — and  their  own 
speech  is  slow  and  low  of  tone  because  the  real 
right  to  make  a  noise  there  belongs  to  the  shriekino- 
gulls  and  the  wild,  west  wind  and  the  towering, 
foam-fanged  waves,  which  dashed  themselves,  in 
tireless  rivalry  with  the  thunder,  against  its  cliffs. 

Slow,  too,  in  growth  and  ripening  are  the  wits  of 
the  men  of  Kilmoe.  They  must  have  gray  hairs 
before  they  are  accounted  more  than  boys;  and 
when,  from  sheer  old  age  they  totter  into  the  grave, 
the  feeling  of  the  parish  is  that  they  have  been 
untimely  cut  off  just  as  they  were  beginning  to  get 
their   brains   in    fair   working:   order.      Very    often 

[167] 


i63  The  Return  of  The   G Mahony.  ^ 

these  aged  men,  if  they  dally  and  loiter  on  the  way 
to  the  tomb  in  the  hope  of  becoming  still  wiser,  are 
given  a  sharp  and  peremptory  push  forward  by 
starvation.  It  would  not  do  for  the  men  of  Kilmoe 
to  know  too  much.  If  they  did,  they  would  all  go 
somewhere  else  to  live — and  then  what  would  be- 
come of  their  landlord? 

Kilmoe  once  had  a  thriving  and  profitable  industr}-, 
whereby  a  larger  population  than  it  now  contains 
kept  body  and  soul  together  in  more  intimate  aiid 
comfortable  relations  than  at  present  exist.  The 
outlay  involved  in  this  industry  was  very  small,  and 
the  returns,  though  not  governed  by  any  squalid, 
modern  law  of  percentages,  were,  on  the  whole, 
large. 

It  was  all  very  simple.  Whenever  a  stormy, 
wind-swept  night  set  in,  the  men  of  Kilmoe  tied  a 
lighted  lantern  on  the  neck  of  a  cow,  and  drove  the 
animal  to  walk  along  the  strand  underneath  the  sea- 
cliffs.  This  light,  rising  and  sinking  with  the  move- 
ments of  the  cow,  bore  a  quaint  and  interesting 
resemblance  to  the  undulations  of  an  illuminated 
buoy  or  boat,  rocked  on  gentle  waves  ;  and  strange 
seafaring  crafts  bent  their  course  in  confidence 
toward  it,  until  they  were  undeceived.  Then  the 
men  of  Kilmoe  would  sally  forth,  riding  the  tumbling 
breakers  with  great  bravery  and  address,  in  their 
boats  of  withes  and  stretched  skin,  and  enter  into 
possession  of  all  the  stranded  strangers'  goods  and 
chattels.  As  for  such  strangers  as  survived  the 
wreck,  they  were  sometimes  sold  into  slavery  ;  more 
often  they  were  merely  knocked  on  the  head.  Thus 
Kilmoe  lived  much  more  prosperously  than  in  these 


The  Lady  of  Muirisc.  169 

melancholy  latter  days  of  dependence  upon  a  pre- 
carious potato  crop. 

In  every  family  devoted  to  industrial  pursuits 
there  is  one  member  who  is  more  distinguished  for 
attention  to  the  business  than  the  others,  and  upon 
whom  its  chief  burdens  fall.  This  was  true  of  the 
O'Mahonys,  who  for  many  centuries  controlled  and 
carried  on  the  lucrative  occupation  above  described, 
on  their  peninsula  of  Ivehagh.  There  were 
branches  of  the  sept  stationed  in  the  more  inland 
sea-castles  of  Rosbrin,  Ardintenant,  Leamcon  and 
Ballydesmond  on  the  one  side,  and  of  Dunbeacon, 
Dunmanus  and  Muirisc  on  the  other,  who  did  not 
expend  all  their  energies  upon  this,  their  genuine 
business,  but  took  many  vacations  and  indefinitely 
extended  holiday  trips,  for  the  improvement  of  their 
minds  and  the  gratification  of  their  desire  to  whip 
the  neighboring  O'Driscolls,  O'Sullivans,  O'Heas 
and  O'Learys  out  of  their  boots.  The  record  of 
these  pleasure  excursions,  in  which  sometimes  the 
O'Mahonys  returned  with  great  booty  and  the  heads 
of  their  enemies  on  pikes,  and  some  other  times  did 
not  come  home  at  all,  fills  all  the  pages  of  the 
Psalter  of  Rosbrin,  beside  occupying  a  good  deal  of 
space  in  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen  and  of  the  Four 
Masters,  and  needs  not  be  enlarged  upon  here. 

But  it  is  evident  that  that  gentleman  of  the  family 
who,  from  choice  or  sense  of  duty,  lived  in  Kilmoe, 
must  have  pursued  the  legitimate  O'Mahony  voca- 
tion very  steadily,  without  an}-  frivolous  interrup- 
tions or  the  waste  of  time  in  visiting  his  neighbors. 
The  truth  is  that  he  had  no  neighbors,  and  nothing 
else   under   the  sun  with  which  to  occupy  his  mind 


I  yo         T/ie  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

but  the  affairs  of  the  sea.  This  the  observer  will 
readily  conclude  when  he  stands  upon  the  promon- 
tory marked  on  the  maps  as  Three-Castle  Head, 
with  the  whole  world-dividing  Atlantic  at  his  feet, 
and  looks  over  at  the  group  of  ruined  and  moss- 
grown  keeps  which  give  the  place  its  name. 


"  Oh-h  !  Look  there  now,  Murphy  !"  cried  a  tall 
and  beautiful  young  woman,  who  stood  for  the  first 
time  on  this  lofty  sea-wall,  viewing  the  somber  line 
of  connected  castles.  "  Sure,  here  lived  the  true 
O'Mahony  of  the  Coast  of  White  Foam  !  Why, 
man,  what  were  we  at  Muirisc  but  poor  crab-catch- 
ers compared  wid  him  f 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  awed  admiration,  between 
long  breaths  of  wonderment,  and  her  big  eyes  of 
Irish  gray  glowed  from  their  cover  of  sweeping 
lashes  with  surprised  delight.  She  had  taken  off 
her  hat — a  black  straw  hat,  with  a  dignifiedly  broad 
brim  bound  in  velvet,  and  enriched  by  a  plume  of 
the  same  somber  hue — to  save  it  from  the  wind, 
which  blew  stiffly  here ;  and  this  bold  sea-wind, 
nothing  loth,  frolicked  boisterously  with  her  dark 
curls  instead.  She  put  her  hand  on  her  compan- 
ion's shoulder  for  steadiness,  and  continued  the  rapt 
gaze  upon  this  crumbling  haunt  of  the  dead  and 
forgotten  sea-lords. 

Twelve  years  had  passed  since,  as  a  child  of 
eight,  Kate  O'Mahony  had  screamed  out  in  despair 
after  the  departing  Hen  Hatvk.  That  vessel  had 
never  cleft  the  waters  of  Dunmanus  since,  and  the 
fleeting   years   had    converted    the    memory    of  its 


The  Lady  of  Muirisc.  i  7 1 

master,  into  a  kind  of  heroic  legendary  myth,  over 
which  the  elders  brooded  fondly,  but  which  the 
youngsters  thought  of  as  something  scarcely  less 
remote  than  the  Firbolgs,  or  the  builders  of  the 
"  Danes'  forts  "  on  tiie  furze-crowned  hills  about. 

But  these  same  years,  though  they  turned  the 
absent  into  shadows,  had  made  of  Kate  a  very  lovely 
and  complete  realit}-.  It  would  be  small  praise  to 
speak  of  her  as  the  most  beautiful  girl  on  the  penin- 
sula, since  there  is  no  other  section  of  Ireland  so 
little  favored  in  that  respect,  to  begin  with,  and  for 
the  additional  reason  that  whatever  maidenly  come- 
liness there  is  existent  there  is  habitually  shrouded 
from  view  by  close-drawn  shawls  and  enveloping 
hoods,  even  on  the  hottest  of  summer  noon-daj's. 
For  all  the  stray  traveller  sees  of  young  and  pretty 
faces  in  Ivehagh,  he  might  as  well  be  in  the  heart  of 
the  vailed  Orient. 

And  even  with  Kate,  potential  Lady  of  Muirisc 
though  she  was,  this  fashion  of  a  hat  was  novel.  It 
seemed  only  3'esterday  since  she  had  emerged  from 
the  chr3'salis  of  girlhood — girlhood  with  a  shawl 
over  its  head,  and  Heaven  only  knows  what  abvsses 
of  ignorant  sliyness  and  stupid  distrust  inside  that 
head.  And,  alas  !  it  seemed  but  a  swiftly  on-coming 
to-morrow  before  this  new  freedom  was  to  be  lost 
again,  and  the  hat  exchanged  forever  for  a  nun's 
vail. 

If  Kate  had  known  natural  history  better,  she 
might  have  likened  her  lot  to  that  of  the  May-fl}-, 
which  spends  two  years  underground  in  its  larva  state 
hard  at  work  preparing  to  be  a  fly,  and  tlien,  when  it 
at  last  emerges,  lives  only  for  an  hour,  even  if  it  that 


172  The  Return  of  The  G Mahoiiy, 

long  escapes  the  bill  of  the  swallow  or  the  rude  jaws 
of  the  trout.  No  such  simile  drawn  from  stony- 
hearted Nature's  tragedies  helped  her  to  philosophy. 
She  had,  perhaps,  a  better  refuge  in  the  health  and 
enthusiasm  of  her  own  youth. 

"!  In  the  company  of  her  ancient  servitor,  Murphy, 
she  was  spending  the  pleasant  April  days  in  visiting 
the  various  ruins  of  The  O'Mahony's  on  Ivehagh. 
Many  of  these  she  viewed  now  for  the  first  time, 
and  the  delight  of  this  overpowered  and  kept  down 
in  her  mind  the  reflection  that  perhaps  she  was  see- 
ing them  all  for  the  last  time  as  well. 

"  But  how,  in  the  name  of  glory,  did  they  get  up 
and  down  to  their  boats.  Murphy  ?"  she  asked,  at 
last,  strolling  further  out  toward  the  edge  to  catch 
the  full  sweep  of  the  cliff  front,  which  rises  abruptly 
from  the  beach  below,  sheer  and  straight,  clear 
three  hundred  feet. 

"  There's  never  a  nearer  landing-place,  thin,  than 
where  we  left  our  boat,  a  half-mile  bey  ant  here," 
said  Murphy.  "  Faith,  miss,  'tis  the  belafe  they 
went  up  and  down  be  the  aid  of  the  little  people. 
'T  is  well  known  that,  on  windy  nights,  there  do  be 
grand  carrin's-on  hereabouts.  Sure,  in  the  lake 
forninst  us  it  was  that  Kian  O'Mahony  saw  the 
enchanted  woman  with  the  shape  on  her  of  a  horse, 
and  died  of  the  sight.  Manny's  the  time  me  own 
father  related  to  me  that  same." 

"  Oh,  true  ;  that  wo?eld  be  the  lake  of  the  legend," 
said  Kate.  "  Let  us  go  down  to  it,  Murphy.  I'll 
dip  me  hand  for  wance  in  water  that's  been  really 
bewitched." 

The  girl  ran  lightly  down  the  rolling  side  of  the 


Tiic  Lady  of  Mitirisc.  I  73 

hill,  and  across  the  rock-strewn  hollows  and  mounds 
which  stretched  toward  the  castellated  cliff.  The 
base  of  the  third  and  most  inland  tower  was  washed 
by  a  placid  fresh-water  pond,  covering  an  area  of 
several  acres,  and  heavily  fringed  at  one  end  with 
rushes.  As  she  drew  near  a  heron  suddenly  rose 
from  the  reeds,  hung  awkwardly  for  a  moment  with 
its  long  legs  dangling  in  the  air,  and  then  began  a 
slow,  heavy  flight  seaward.  On  the  moment  Kate 
saw  another  even  more  unexpected  sight — the  figure 
of  a  man  on  the  edge  of  the  lake,  with  a  gun  raised 
to  his  shoulder,  its  barrel  following  the  heron's 
clumsy  course.  Involuntarily  she  uttered  a  little 
warning  shout  to  the  bird,  then  stood  still,  confused 
and  blushing.  Stif!-jointed  old  Murphy  was  far 
behind. 

The  stranger  had  heard  her,  if  the  heron  had  not. 
He  lowered  his  weapon,  and  for  a  moment  gazed 
wonderingly  across  the  water  at  this  unlooked-for 
apparition.  Then,  with  his  gun  under  his  arm,  he 
turned  and  walked  briskly  toward  her.  Kate  cast  a 
searching  glance  backward  for  Murphy  in  vain,  and 
her  intuitive  movement  to  draw  a  shawl  over  her 
head  was  equally  fruitless.  The  old  man  was  still 
somewhere  behind  the  rocks,  and  she  had  only  this 
citified  hat  and  even  that  not  on  her  head.  She 
could  see  that  the  advancing  sportsman  was  young 
and  a  stranger. 

He  came  up  close  to  where  she  stood,  and  lifted 
his  cap  for  an  instant  in  an  off-hand  way.  Viewed 
thus  nearl}^,  he  was  very  young,  with  a  bright,  fresh- 
colored  face  and  the  bearing  and  clothes  of  a  gen- 
tleman. 


174  The  Ret 70^11  of  The  O MaJwny. 

"  I'm  glad  you  stopped  me,  now  that  I  think  of  it," 
he  said,  with  an  easy  readiness  of  speech.  "  One 
has  no  business  to  shoot  that  kind  of  bird;  but  I'd 
been  13'ing  about  here  for  hours,  waiting  for  some- 
thing better  to  turn  up,  till  I  was  in  a  mood  to  bang 
at  anything  that  came  along." 

He  offered  this  explanation  with  a  nonchalant 
half-smile,  as  if  confident  of  its  prompt  acceptance. 
Then  his  face  took  on  a  more  serious  look,  as  he 
glanced  a  second  time  at  her  own  flushed  counten- 
ance. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  been  trespassing,"  he  added, 
under  the  influence  of  this  revised  impression. 

Kate  was,  in  truth,  frowning  at  him,  and  there 
were  no  means  by  which  he  could  guess  that  it  was 
the  effect  of  nervous  timidity  rather  than  vexation. 

"  'Tis  not  my  land,"  she  managed  to  say  at  last, 
and  looked  back  again  for  Murphy. 

"No — I  didn't  think  it  was  anybody's  land,"  he 
remarked,  essaying  another  propitiatory  smile. 
"  They  told  me  at  Goleen  that  I  could  shoot  as  much 
as  I  liked.  They  didn't  tell  me,  though,  that  there 
was  nothing  to  shoot." 

The  young  man  clearly  expected  conversation  ; 
and  Kate,  stealing  further  flash-studies  of  his  face, 
began  to  be  conscious  that  his  manner  and  talk  were 
not  specially  different  from  those  of  any  nice  girl  of 
her  own  age.  She  tried  to  think  of  something  ami- 
able to  say. 

"  'Tis  not  the  sayson  for  annything  worth  shoot- 
ing,'' she  said,  and  then  wondered  if  it  was  an  imper- 
tinent remark. 

"I  know    that,"  he  replied.     "But  I've  nothing' 


The  Lady  of  Muirisc.  i  75 

else  to  do,  just  at  the  moment,  and  you  can  keep 
)'ourself  walking  better  if  3'ou've  got  a  gun,  and 
then,  of  course,  in  a  strange  country  there's  always 
the  chance  that  somethi  ig  curious  may  turn  up  to 
shoot.  Fact  is,  I  didn't  care  so  much  after  all 
whether  I  shot  anything  or  not.  You  see,  castles 
are  new  things  to  me — we  don't  grow  'em  where  I 
came  from — and  it's  fun  to  me  to  mouse  around 
among  the  stones  and  walls  and  so  on.  But  this  is 
the  wildest  and  lonesomest  thing  I've  run  up  against 
yet.  I  give  you  my  word,  I'd  been  lying  here  so 
long,  watching  those  mildewed  old  towers  there  and 
wondering  what  kind  of  folks  built  'em  and  lived  in 
'em,  that  when  I  saw  you  galloping  down  the  rocks 
here — upon  my  word,  I  half  thought  it  was  all  a  fairy 
story.  You  know  the  poor  people  really  believe  in 
that  sort  of  thing,  here.  Several  of  them  have  told 
me  so." 

Kate  actually  felt  herself  smiling  upon  the  young 
man. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  can't  always  believe  them,"  she 
said.  "Some  of  them  have  deludthering  waj'S  with 
strangers — not  that  they  mane  anny  harm  by  it, 
poor  souls  !" 

".But  a  young  man  down  below  here,  to-da}^" 
continued  the  other — "mind  you,  2^.  young  n\'\\\ — told 
me  solemnly  that  almost  every  night  he  heard  with 
his  own  ears  the  shindy  kicked  up  by  the  ghosts  on 
the  hill  back  of  his  house,  you  know,  inside  one  of 
those  ringed  Danes'  forts,  as  they  call  'em.  He 
swore  to  it,  honest  Injun." 

The  girl  started  in  spite  of  herself,  stirred  vaguely 
by  the  sound  of  this  curious  phrase  with  which  the 


1  -6  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

young  man  had  finished  his  remarks.  But  nothing 
definite  took  shape  in  her  thoughts  concerning  it^ 
and  she  answered  him  freely  enough  : 

"  Ah,  well,  I'll  not  say  he  intinded  desate.  They're 
a  poetic  people,  sir,  living  here  alone  among  the  ruins 
of  what  was  wance  a  grand  country,  and  now  is 
what  you  see  it,  and  they  imagine  visions  to  thim- 
selves,  'Tis  in  the  air,  here.  Sure,  you  yourself  " 
— she  smiled  again  as  she  spoke — "  credited  me  with 
being  a  fairy.  Of  course,"'  she  added,  hastily,  "you 
had  in  mind  the  legend  of  the  lake,  here." 

"  How  do  you  mean — legend?"  asked  the  young 
man,  in  frank  ignorance. 

"  Sure,  here  in  these  very  waters  is  a  woman,  with 
the  shape  of  a  horse,  who  appears  to  people,  and 
when  they  see  her,  they — they  die,  that's  all." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  deal,  I  should  think,"  he 
responded,  lightly.  "  No,  I  hadn't  heard  of  that 
before  ;  and,  besides,  you — why,  you  came  down  the 
hill,  there,  skipping  like  a  lamb  on  the  mountains, 
not  a  bit  like  a  horse." 

The  while  Kate  turned  his  comparsion  over  in 
her  mind  to  judge  whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  the 
young  man  shifted  his  gun  to  his  shoulder,  as  if  to 
indicate  that  the  talk  had  lasted  long  enough. 
Then  she  swiftly  blamed  herself  for  having  left  this 
signal  to  him. 

"  I'll  not  be  keeping  you,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"  Oh,  bless  you — not  at  all !''  he  protested.  "  Only 
I  was  afraid  I  was  keeping  j/^/^  You  see,  time  hangs 
pretty  heavy  on  my  hands  just  now,  and  I'm  tickled 
to  death  to  have  anybody  to  talk  to.  Of  course,  I 
like  to  go  around  looking  at  the  castles  here,  because 


The  Lady  of  Muirisc.  177 

the  chances  are  that  some  of  my  people  some  time 
or  other  helped  build  'em.  1  know  my  father  was 
born  somewhere  in  this  part  of  County  Cork." 

Kate  sniffed  at  him. 

"  Manny  thousands  of  people  have  been  born 
here,"  she  said,  with  dignity,  "  but  it  doesn't  follow 
that  they  had  annything  to  do  with  these  castles." 

The  young  man  attached  less  importance  to  the 
point. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "  All  I 
go  by  is  the  probability  that,  way  back  somewhere, 
all  of  us  O'Mahonys  were  related  to  one  another. 
But  for  that  matter,  so  were  all  the  Irish  who — " 

"And  are  j^?/  an  O'Mahony,  thin  ?" 

Kate  was  looking  at  him  with  shining  eyes — and 
he  saw  now  that  she  was  much  taller  and  more  beau- 
tiful than  he  had  thought  before. 

"  That's  my  name,"  he  said,  simply. 

"  An  O'Mahony  of  County  Cork  ?" 

"Well — personally  I'm  an  O'Mahony  of  Hough- 
ton County,  Michigan,  but  my  father  was  from 
around  here,  somewhere." 

"Do  you  hear  that.  Murphy?"  she  said,  instinc- 
tively turning  to  the  faithful  companion  of  all  her 
out-of-door  life.  But  there  was  no  Murphy  in 
sight. 

Kate  stared  blankly  about  her  for  an  instant, 
before  she  remembered  that  Murphy  had  never 
rejoined  her  at  the  lakeside.  And  now  she  thought 
she  could  hear  some  vague  sound  of  calling  in  the 
distance,  rising  above  the  continuous  crash  of  the 
breakers  down  below. 

"  Oh,  something  has  happened  to  him  !"  she  cried, 


178  The  Return  of  The  G MaJiony. 

and  started  running  wildly  back  again.  The  young 
man  followed  close  enough  to  keep  her  in  sight,  and 
at  a  distance  of  some  three  hundred  yards  came  up 
to  her,  as  she  knelt  beside  the  figure  of  an  old  peas- 
ant seated  with  his  back  against  a  rock. 

Something  had  happened  to  Murphy.     His  ankle 
had  turned  on  a  stone,  and  he  could  not  walk  a  step. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

HOW   THE    OLD    BOATMAN   KEPT   HIS   VOW. 

"  Oh,  what's  to  be  done  nozvf  asked  Kate,  rising 
to  her  feet  and  casting-  a  puzzled  look  about  her. 
"  Sure,  me  wits  are  abroad  entirely." 

No  answer  seemed  forthcoming-.  As  far  inland 
as  the  eye  could  stretch,  even  to  the  gray  crown  of 
Dunkelly,  no  sign  of  human  habitation  was  to  be 
seen.  The  jutting  headland  of  the  Three  Castles 
on  which  she  stood — with  the  naked  primeval  cliffs  ; 
the  roughly  scattered  boulders  framed  in  scrub- 
furze  too  stunted  and  frightened  in  the  presence  of 
the  sea  to  venture  upon  blossoms ;  the  thin  ashen- 
green  grass  blown  flat  to  earth  in  the  little  sheltered 
nooks  where  alone  its  roots  might  live — presented 
the  grimmest  picture  of  desolation  she  had  ever 
seen.  An  undersized  sheep  had  climbed  the  rocks 
to  gaze  upon  the  intruders — an  animal  with  fleece 
of  such  a  snowy  whiteness  that  it  looked  like  an 
imitation  baa-baa  from  a  toy-shop — and  Kate  found 
herself  staring  into  its  vacuous  face  with  sympathy, 
so  helplessly  empty  was  her  own  mind  of  sugges- 
tions. 

"  'Tis  two  Oirish  miles  to  the  nearest  house,"  said 
Murphy,  in  a  despondent  tone. 


i8o  The  Retur7i  of  The   O Mahony. 

Kate  turned  to  the  young  man,  and  spoke  wist- 
fully : 

"  If  you'll  stop  here,  I'll  go  for  help,"  she 
said. 

The  young  man  from  Houghton  County  laughed 
aloud. 

"  If  there's  any  going  to  be  done,  I  guess  you're 
not  the  one  that'll  do  it,"  he  answered.  "  But,  fiist 
of  all,  let's  see  where  we  stand  exactly.  How  did 
you  come  here,  anyhow  ?" 

"We  rowed  around  from — from  our  home — a 
long  way  distant  in  that  direction,"  pointing 
vaguely  toward  Dunmanus  Ba}-,  "  and  our  boat  was 
left  there  at  the  nearest  landing  point,  half  a  mile 
from  here." 

"  Ah,  well,  thafs  all  right,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  It  would  take  an  hour  to  get  anybody  over  here 
to  help,  and  that  would  be  clean  waste  of  time, 
because  we  don't  need  any  help.  I'll  just  tote  him 
over  on  my  back,  all  by  m}^  little  self." 

"Ah — you'd  never  try  to  do  the  likes  of  Z/^^/ /" 
deprecated  the  girl. 

"Why  not?"  he  commented,  cheerfully — an.! 
then,  with  a  surprise  which  checked  further  protest, 
she  saw  him  tie  his  game-bag  round  his  waist  so  that 
it  hung  to  the  knee,  get  Murphy  seated  up  on  the 
rock  against  which  he  had  learned,  and  then  take 
him  bodily  on  his  back,  with  the  wounded  foot  com- 
fortably upheld  and  steadied  inside  the  capacious 
leathern  pouch. 

"  '  Why  not,'  eh  ?"  he  repeated,  as  he  straightened 
himself  easily  under  the  burden  ;  "  why  he's  as 
light  as  a  bag  of  feathers.     That's  one  of  the  few 


Holu  the  Boatman  kept  his    Vozu.        i8r 

advantages  of  living  on  potatoes.  Now  you  bring 
along  the  gun — that's  a  good  girl — and  we'll  fetch 
up  at  the  boat  in  no  time.  You  do  the  steering, 
Murphy.     Now,  then,  here  we  go  !" 

The  somber  walls  of  the  Three  Castles  looked 
down  in  silence  upon  this  strange  procession  as  it 
filed  past  under  their  shadows — and  if  the  gulls 
which  wheeled  above  and  about  the  moss-grown 
turrets  described  the  spectacle  later  to  the  wraiths  of 
the  dead-and-gone  0'jMahon3^s  and  to  the  enchanted 
horse-shaped  woman  in  the  lake,  there  must  have 
been  a  general  agreement  that  the  parish  of  Kilmoe 
had  seen  never  such  another  sight  before,  even  in 
the  da3's  of  the  mystic  Tuatha  de  Danaan. 

The  route  to  the  boat  abounded  to  a  dishearten- 
ing degree  in  rough  and  difficult  descents,  and  even 
more  trying  was  the  frequent  necessity  for  long 
detours  to  avoid  impossible  barriers  of  rock.  More- 
over, Murphy  turned  out  to  be  vastly  heavier  than 
he  had  seemed  at  the  outset.  Hence  the  young 
man,  who  had  freely  enlivened  the  beginning  of  the 
journey  with  affable  chatter,  gradually  lapsed  into 
silence  ;  and  at  last,  when  only  a  final  ridge  of  low 
hills  separated  them  from  the  strand,  confessed  that 
he  would  like  to  take  ofT  his  coat.  He  rested  for  a 
minute  or  two  after  this  had  been  done,  and  wiped 
his  wet  brow. 

"  Who'd  think  the.  sun  could  be  so  hot  in  April  ?" 
he  said.  "  Wh)',  where  I  come  from,  we've  just 
begun  to  get  through  sleighing." 

"  What  is  it  you'd  be  sla3'ing  now  ?"  asked  Kate, 
innocently.     "  We  kill  our  pigs  in  the  late  autumn." 


1 82  The  Reticrn  of  The  G Mahoiiy, 

The  3-oung  man  laughed  aloud  as  he  took  Murphy 
once  more  on  his  back. 

"  Potato-bugs,  chiefly,"  was  his  enigmatic  response. 

She  pondered  fruitlessly  upon  this  for  a  brief 
time,  as  she  followed  on  with  the  gun  and  coat. 
Then  her  thoughts  centered  themselves  once  more 
upon  the  young  stranger  himself,  who  seemed  only 
a  boy  to  look  at,  yet  was  so  stout  and  confident  of 
himself,  and  had  such  a  man's  way  of  assuming 
control  of  things,  and  doing  just  what  he  wanted 
to  do  and  what  needed  to  be  done. 

Muirisc  did  not  breed  that  sort  of  young  man. 
He  could  not,  from  his  face,  be  more  than  three  or 
four  and  twenty — and  at  that  age  all  the  men  she 
had  known  were  mere  slow-witted,  shy  and  awk- 
ward louts  of  boys,  whom  their  fathers  were  quite 
free  to  beat  with  a  stick,  and  who  never  dreamed 
of  doing  anything  on  their  own  mental  initiative, 
except  possibly  to  "  boo  "  at  the  police  or  throw 
stones  through  the  windows  of  a  boycotted  shop. 
Evidently  there  were  young  men  in  the  big  un- 
known outside  world  who  differed  immeasurably 
from  this  local  standard. 

Oh,  that  wonderful  outside  world,  which  she  was 
never  going  to  see!  She  knew  that  it  was  sinful 
and  godless  and  pressed  down  and  running  over 
with  abominations,  because  the  venerable  nuns  of 
the  Hostage's  Tears  had  from  the  beginning  told 
her  so,  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  new  and  less 
hostile  interest  in  it,  all  the  same,  since  it  produced 
young  men  of  this  novel  type.  Then  she  began  to 
reflect  that  he  was  like  R(jbert  Emmett,  who  was 
the  most  modern   instance   of  a  young  man  which 


How  the  Boat' man  kept  his    Voiv.        183 

the  limits  of  convent  literature  permitted  her  to 
know  about,  only  his  hair  was  cut  short,  and  he  was 
fair,  and  he  smiled  a  good  deal,  and — 

And  lo,  here  they  were  at  the  boat!  She  woke 
abruptly  from  her  musing  day-dream. 

The  tide  had  gone  out  somewhat,  and  left  the 
dingey  stranded  on  the  dripping  sea-weed.  The 
young  man  seated  Murphy  on  a  rock,  untied  the 
game-bag  and  put  on  his  coat,  and  then  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  way  tramped  over  the  slippery  ooze 
to  the  boat,  pushed  it  off  into  the  water  and  towed 
it  around  by  the  chain  to  the  edge  of  a  little  cove, 
whence  one  might  step  over  its  side  from  a  shore  of 
clean,  dry  sand.  He  then,  still  as  if  it  were  all  a 
matter  of  course,  lifted  Murphy  and  put  him  in  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  and  asked  Kate  to  sit  in  the  stern 
and  steer. 

"  I  can  talk  to  you,  you  know,  now  that  your  sit- 
ting there,"  he  said,  with  his  foot  on  the  end  of  the 
oar-seat,  after  she  had  taken  the  place  indicated. 
"  Oh — wait  a  minute!  We  were  forgetting  the  gun 
and  bag." 

He  ran  lightly  back  to  where  these  things  lay 
upon  the  strand,  and  secured  them  ;  then,  turning, 
he  discovered  that  Murphy  had  scrambled  over  to 
the  middle  seat,  taken  the  oars,  and  pushed  the 
boat  off.  Suspecting  nothing,  he  walked  briskly 
back  to  the  water's  edge. 

"  Shove  her  in  a  little,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  hold  her 
while  you  get  back  again  into  the  bow.  You 
mustn't  think  of  rowing,  my  good  man," 

But  Murphy  showed  no  sign  of  obedience.  He  kept 
his  burnt,  claw-shaped  hands  clasped  on  the  motion- 


184  TJie  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

less,  dipped  oars,  and  his  eager,  bird-like  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  face  of  his  young  mistress.  As  for 
Kate,  she  studied  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with 
intentness,  and  absently  stirred  the  water  over  the 
boat-side  with  her  finger-tips. 

"Get  her  in,  man!  Don't  you  hear?"  called  the 
stranger,  with  a  shadow  of  impatience,  over  the  six 
or  seven  feet  of  water  which  lay  between  him  and  the 
boat.  "  Oy  yoiL  explain  it  to  him,"  he  said  to  Kate  ; 
"  perhaps  he  doesn't  understand  me — tell  him  I'm 
going  to  row  !" 

In  response  to  this  appeal,  Kate  lifted  her  head, 
and  hesitatingly  opened  her  li[)s  to  speak — but  the 
gaunt  old  boatman  broke  in  upon  her  confused 
silence  : 

"  Ah,  thin— I  understand  well  enough,"  hejshouted, 
excitedly,  "  an'  I'm  thankful  to  3-0,  an'  the  longest 
day  I  live  I'll  say  a  praj^er  for  ye — an'  sure  ye're  a 
foine  grand  man,  every  inch  of  ye,  glory  be  to  the 
Lord — an'  it's  not  manny  w'u'd  'a'  done  what  ye  did 
this  day — and  the  blessin'  of  the  Lord  rest  an  ye  ; 
but — "  here  he  suddenly  dropped  his  high 
shrill,  swift-chasing  tones,  and  added  in  quite 
another  voice — "  if  it's  the  same  to  you,  sir,  we'll  go 
along  home  as  we  are." 

"  What  nonsense !"  retorted  the  young  man. 
"  My  time  doesn't  matter  in  the  least — and  3'ou're 
not  fit  to  row  a  mile — let  alone  a  long  distance." 

"  It's  not  with  me  fut  I'll  be  rowin',"  replied  Mur- 
phy, rounding  his  back  for  a  sweep  of  the  oars. 

"  Can't  j^?^  stop  him.  Miss — eh — young  lady  !"  the 
young  man  implored  from  the  sands. 

Hope  flamed  up  in  his  breast  at  sight  of  the  look 


Hoto  the  Boatman  kept  his    Vow.        185 

she  bent  upon  Murphv,  as  she  leaned  forward  to 
speak — and  then  sank  into  plumbless  depths.  Per- 
haps she  had  said  something — he  could  not  hear, 
and  it  was  doubtful  if  the  old  boatman  could  have 
heard  either — for  on  the  instant  he  had  laid  his 
strength  on  the  oars,  and  the  boat  had  shot  out  into 
the  bay  like  a  skater  over  the  glassy  ice. 

It  was  a  score  of  yards  away  before  the  3M)ung 
man  from  Houghton  County  caught  his  breath. 
He  stood  watching  it — be  it  confessed — with  his 
mouth  somewhat  open  and  blank  astonishment  writ- 
ten all  over  his  ruddy,  boyish  face.  Then  the  flush 
upon  his  pink  cheeks  deepened,  and  a  sparkle  came 
into  his  eyes,  for  the  young  lady  in  the  boat  had 
risen  and  turned  toward  him,  and  was  waving  her 
hand  to  him  in  friendly  salutation.  He  swung  the 
empty  game-bag  wildly  about  his  head  in  answer, 
and  then  the  boat  darted  out  of  view  behind  a  jut- 
ting ridge  of  umber  rocks,  and  he  was  looking  at  an 
unbroken  expanse  of  gently  heaving  water — all 
crystals  set  on  violet  satin,  under  the  April  sun. 

He  sent  a  long-drawn  sighing  whistle  of  bewil- 
derment after  the  vanished  vision. 

Not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  between  the  two 
in  the  boat  until  after  Kate,  yielding  at  the  last 
moment  to  the  temptation  which  had  beset  her 
from  the  first,  waved  that  unspoken  farewell  to  her 
new  acquaintance  and  saw  him  a  moment  later 
abruptly  cut  out  of  the  picture  by  the  intervening 
rocks.  Then  she  sat  down  again  and  fastened  a 
glare  of  metallic  disapproval,  so  to  speak,  upon 
Murphy.     This,  however,  served  no  purpose,  since 


1 86  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

the  boatman  kept  his  head  sagaciously  bent  over 
his  task,  and  rowed  awa}^  like  mad. 

"  I  take  shame  for  you,  Murpii}'  !"  she  said  at  last, 
with  a  voice  as  full  of  mingled  anguish  and  humili- 
ation as  she  could  manage  to  make  it. 

"  Is  it  too  free  I  am  with  complete  strangers?" 
asked  the  guileful  Murphy,  with  the  face  of  a  trust- 
ing babe. 

"  'Tis  the  rudest  and  most  thankless  old  man  in  all 
West  Carbery  that  ye  are  !"  she  answered,  sharply. 

"  Luk  at  that  now!"  said  Murphy,  apparently 
addressing  the  handles  of  his  oars.  "  An'  me  havin' 
the  intintion  to  burrin  two  candles  for  him  this  very 
night!" 

"Candles  is  it !  Murphy,  once  for  all,  't  is  a  bad 
trick  ye  have  of  falling  to  talking  about  candles  and 
*  Hail  Marys  '  and  such  holy  matters,  whinever  ye 
feel  yourself  in  a  corner — and  be  sure  the  saints  like 
it  no  better  than  I  do." 

The  aged  servitor  rested  for  a  moment  upon  his 
oars,  and,  being  conscious  that  evasion  was  of  no 
further  use,  allowed  an  expression  of  frankness  to 
dominate  his  withered  and  weather-tanned  face. 

"  Well,  miss,"  he  said,  "  an'  this  is  the  truth  I'm 
tellin'  ye — 't  was  not  fit  that  he  should  be  sailin'  in 
the  boat  wid  you." 

Kate  tossed  her  head  impatiently. 

"And  how  long  are  you  my  director  in — in  such 
matters  as  these.  Murphy?"  she  asked,  with   irony. 

The  old  man's  eyes  glistened  with  the  emotions 
which  a  sudden  swift  thought  conjured  up. 

"How    long?"    he   asked,    with    dramatic   effect. 


Hoiv  the  Boatiiian  kept  his    Voza.        187 

"  Sure,  the  likes  of  me  c'u'd  be  no  directlior  at  all — 
but  'tis  a  dozen  ^-ears  since  1  swore  to  his  htjiior, 
Tiie  O'Mahony  himself,  that  I'd  watch  over  ye,  an' 
protect  ye,  an'  keep  ye  from  the  lightest  breath  of 
harrum — an'  whin  I  meet  him,  whether  it  be  the 
Lord's  will  in  this  world  or  the  nixt,  I'll  go  to  him 
an'  I'll  take  off  me  hat,  an'  I'll  say:  '  Yer  honor, 
what  old  Murphy  putt  his  word  to,  that  same  he 
kep  !'  An'  is  it  you,  Miss  Katie,  that  remimbers  him 
that  well,  that  'u'd  be  blamin'  me  for  that    same  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  if  I'm  so  much  blaming  you.  Mur- 
phy," said  Kate,  much  softened  by  both  the  matter 
and  the  manner  of  this  appeal,  "  but  'tis  different, 
wit'  this  young  man,  himself  an  O'Mahony  by 
name." 

"  Faith,  be  the  same  token,  'tis  manny  thousands 
of  O'Mahonys  there  are  in  foreign  parts,  I'm  tould, 
an'  more  thousands  of  'em  here  at  home,  an'  if  it's 
for  rowin'  'em  all  on  Dunn::anus  Bay  ye'd  be,  on  the 
score  of  their  name,  'tis  grand  new  boats  we'd 
want." 

Kate  smiled  musingly. 

"Did  you  mind,  Murphy,"  she  asked,  after  a 
pause,  "  how  like  the  sound  of  his  speech  was  to  The 
O'Mahony 's?" 

"  That  I  did  not !"  said  Murphy,  conclusively. 

"  Ah,  ye've  no  ears,  man!  I  was  that  flurried  at 
the  time,  I  couldn't  think  what  it  was — but  now, 
whin  it  comes  back  to  me,  it  was  like  talking  to  The 
O'Mahony  himself.  There  was  that  one  word, 
'  onistinjun,'  that  The  O'Mahony  had  forever  on  his 
tongue.     Surely  you  noticed  that !" 

"  All  Americans  say  that  same,"  Murphy  explained 


1 88  The  Retitrn  of  The  O' Mahoiiy. 

carelessly.     " 'T    is    well   known    most   of    'em    are 
discindcd  from  the  Injuns.     'Tis  that  they  m'ane." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Kate  to  question  this  bold 
ethno-philological  proposition.  She  leant  back  in 
her  seat  at  the  stern,  absent-mindedly  toying  with 
the  ribbons  of  her  hat,  and  watching  the  sky  over 
Murphy's  head. 

"  Poor,  dear  old  O'Mahony  !"  she  sighed  at  last. 

"  Amin  to  that  miss  !"  murmured  the  boatman, 
between  strokes. 

"  'T  is  a  year  an'  more  now.  Murphy,  since  we 
had  the  laste  sign  in  the  world  from  him.  Ah, 
wirra  !     I'm  beginnin'  to  be  afraid   dead  'tis  he  is  !" 

"  Keep  your  heart,  miss ;  keep  your  heart  !" 
crooned  the  old  boatman,  in  what  had  been  for 
months  a  familiar  phrase  on  his  lips.  "  Sure  no 
mortial  man  ever  stepped  fut  on  green  sod  t'nat  'ud 
take  more  killin'  than  our  O'Mahony.  Wh}^  coleen 
asthore,  wasn't  he  foightin'  wid  the  French,  against 
the  Prooshians,  an'  thin  wid  the  Turkeys  against 
the  Rooshians,  an'  bechune  males,  as  ye'd  say,  didn't 
he  bear  arms  in  Spain  for  the  Catholic  king,  like  the 
thunderin'  rare  old  O'Mahony  that  he  is,  an'  did 
ever  so  much  as  a  scratch  come  to  him — an'  him 
killin' an'  destroyin'  thim  by  hundreds?  Ah,  rest 
aisy  about  him,  Miss  Katie  !" 

The  two  had  long  since  exhausted,  in  their  almost 
daily  talks,  every  possible  phase  of  this  melancholy 
subject.  It  was  now  April  of  1879,  ^"<^^  the  last 
word  received  from  the  absent  chief  had  been  a 
hastily  scrawled  note  dispatched  from  Adrianople, 
on  New  Year's  Day  of  1878 — when  the  Turkish 
army,  beaten  finally  at  Plevna  and  decimated  in  the 


How  the  Boatmaji  kept  his    Vow.        189 

Schipka,  were  doggedly  moving  backward  toward 
the  Bosphorus.  Since  that,  there  had  been  absolute 
silence — and  Kate  and  Murphy  had  alike,  hoping 
against  hope,  come  long  since  to  fear  the  worst. 
Though  each  strove  to  sustain  confidence  in  the 
other,  there  was  no  secret  between  their  hearts  as 
to  what  both  felt. 

"  Murphy,"  said  Kate,  rousing  herself  all  at  once 
from  her  reverie,  "  there's  something  I've  been 
keeping  from  you — and  I  can't  hold  it  anny  longer. 
Do  ye  mind  when  Malachy  wint  away  last  winter?" 

''Faith  I  do,"  replied  the  boatman.  (Malachy,  be 
it  explained,  had  followed  The  O'Mahony  in  all  his 
wanderings  up  to  the  autumn  of  1870,  when,  in  a, 
skirmish  shortly  after  Sedan,  he  had  lost  an  arm 
and,  upon  his  release  from  the  hospital,  had  been 
sent  back  to  Muirisc.)  "  I  mind  that  he  wint  to 
Amcrriky." 

"  Well,  thin,"  whispered  Kate,  bending  forward 
as  if  the  very  waves  had  ears,  "  it's  just  that  he 
didn't  do.  I  gave  him  money,  and  I  gave  him  the 
O'Mahony's  ring,  and  sint  him  to  search  the  world 
over  till  he  came  upon  his  master,  or  his  master's 
grave — and  I  charged  him  to  say  only  this:  '  Come 
back  to  Muirisc  !  'Tis  Kate  O'Mahony  wants  you  !' 
And  now  no  one  knows  this  but  me  confessor  and 
you." 

The  boatman  gazed  earnestly  into  her  face, 

"  An'  why  for  did  ye  say  :  '  Come  back  ?'  "  he 
asked. 

"  Ah  thin — well — 'tis  O' Daly's  hard  d'alin's  wid 
the    tinants,  and    the   failure  of  the   potatoes  these 


I  go  The  Return  of  The   O MaJiony. 

two  years  and  worse  ahead  and  the  birth  of  me 
little  step-brother — and — ^" 

"  Answer  me  now,  Katie  darlint  ?"  the  old  man 
adjured  her,  with  glowing  eyes  and  solemn  voice. 
"  Is  it  the  convint  ye're  afraid  of  for  yoursilf  ?  Is  it 
ot  your  own  free  will  you're  goin'  to  lake  your 
vows?" 

The  girl  had  answered  this  question  more  than 
once  before,  and  readily  enough.  Now,  for  some 
reason  which  she  could  not  have  defined  to  herself, 
she  looked  down  upon  the  gliding  water  at  her  side, 
and  meditatively  dipped  her  fingers  into  it,  and  let 
a  succession  of  little  waves  fling  their  crests  up  into 
her  sleeve — and  said  nothing;  at  all. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE   GREAT   O'DALY    USURPATION. 

The  Stern  natural  law  of  mutability — of  cease- 
less growth,  change  and  deca}^ — which  the  big,  bust- 
ling, preoccupied  outside  world  takes  so  indiffer- 
ently, as  a  matter  of  course,  finds  itself  reduced  to  a 
bare  minimum  of  influence  in  such  small,  remote 
and  out-of-the-way  places  as  Muirisc.  The  lapse  of 
twelve  years  here  had  made  the  scantest  and  most 
casual  of  marks  upon  the  village  and  its  inhabitants. 
Positively  no  one  worth  mentioning  had  died — for 
even  snuffy  and  palsied  old  Father  Harrington, 
though  long  since  replaced  at  the  convent  b}^  a 
younger  priest,  was  understood  to  be  still  living  on 
in  the  shelter  of  some  retreat  for  aged  clerg3'men  in 
Kerry  or  Clare.  The  three  old  nuns  were  still  the 
sole  ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears,  and,  like  the  rest  of 
Muirisc,  seemed  only  a  trifle  the  more  wrinkled  and 
worn  under  this  flight  of  time. 

Such  changes  as  had  been  wrought  had  come  in 
a  leisurely  way,  without  attracting  much  attention. 
The  mines,  both  of  copper  and  of  pyrites,  had  pros- 
pered beyond  the  experience  of  any  other  section 
of  Munster,  and  this  had  brought  into  the  imme- 
diate district  a  considerable  alien  population.     But 


192  The  Rettirn  of  The   OMaJiony. 

these  intrusive  strangers  haci  fortunately  preferred 
to  settle  in  another  hamlet  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
came  rarely  to  Muirisc.  The  village  was  still  with- 
out a  hotel,  and  had  by  this  time  grown  accustomed 
to  the  existence  within  its  borders  of  a  constabulary 
barracks.  Its  fishing  went  forward  sedately  and 
without  much  profit;  the  men  of  Muirisc  onl}'  half 
believed  the  stories  they  heard  of  the  modern  appli- 
ances and  wonderful  hauls  at  Baltimore  and  Crook- 
haven — and  cared  even  less  than  they  credited. 
The  lobster-canning  factory  had  died  a  natural 
death  years  before,  and  the  little  children  of  Muirisc, 
playing  about  within  sight  of  its  roofless  and  rotting 
timbers,  avoided  closer  contact  wnth  the  building 
under  some  vague  and  formless  notion  that  it  was 
unlucky.  The  very  idea  that  there  had  once  been 
a  man  who  thought  that  Muirisc  desired  to  put  up 
lobsters  in  tins  seemed  to  them  comic — and  almost 
impious  as  well. 

But  there  was  one  alteration  upon  which  the 
people  of  Muirisc  bestowed  a  good  deal  of  thought 
— and  on  occasion  and  under  their  breath,  not  a  few 
bitter  words. 

Cormac  O'Daly,  whom  all  the  elders  remembered 
as  a  mere  "pote"  and  man  of  business  for  the 
O'Mahonys,  had  suddenly  in  his  old  age  blossomed 
forth  as  The  O'Daly,  and  as  master  of  Muirisc. 
Like  many  other  changes  wdiich  afflict  human  recol- 
lection, this  had  all  come  about  by  reason  of  a 
woman's  vain  folly.  Mrs.  Fergus  O'Mahony,  having 
vainly  cast  alluring  glances  upon  successive  relays 
of  mining  contractors  and  superintendents,  and  of 
fish-buyers  from   Bristol  and  the  Isle  of  Man,  and 


TJie   Great   GDaly    Ustirpation.  193 

even,  in  the  later  stages,  upon  a  sergeant  of  police — 
bad  at  last  actually  thrown  herself  in  marriage  at 
the  grizzled  head  of  the  hereditary  bard.  It  cannot 
be  said  that  the  announcement  of  this  ill-assorted 
match  had  specially  surprised  the  good  people  of 
Muirisc,  They  had  always  felt  that  Mrs.  Fergus 
would  ultimately  triumph  in  her  matrimonial  reso- 
lutions, and  the  choice  of  O'Daly,  though  obviously 
enough  a  last  resort,  did  not  shock  their  placid 
minds.  It  was  rather  satisfactory  than  otherwise, 
when  they  came  to  think  of  it,  that  ihe  arrangement 
should  not  involve  the  introduction  of  a  stranger, 
perhaps  even  of  an  Englishman. 

But  now,  after  nearly  three  years  of  this  marriage, 
with  a  young  O'Daly  already  big  enough  to  walk 
by  himself  among  the  pigs  and  geese  in  the  square 
— they  said  to  themselves  that  even  an  Englishman 
would  have  been  better,  and  they  bracketed  the 
connubial  tendencies  of  Mrs.  Fergus  and  the  upstart 
ambition  of  Cormac  under  a  common  ban  of  curses. 

O'Daly  had  no  sooner  been  installed  in  the  castle 
than  he  had  raised  the  rents.  Back  had  come  the 
odious  charge  for  turf-cutting,  the  tax  on  the  carri- 
geens  and  the  tithe-leyy  upon  the  gathered  kelp.  In 
the  best  of  times  these  impositions  would  have  been 
sorely  felt;  the  cruel  failure  of  the  potatoes  in  1877 
and  '78  had  elevated  them  into  the  domain  of  the 
tragic. 

For  the  first  time  in  its  history  Muirisc  had  wit- 
nessed evictions.  Half  way  up  the  cliff  stood  the 
vi^alls  of  four  cottages,  from  which  the  thatched 
roofs  had  been  torn  b}-  a  sheriff's  posse  of  police- 
man  during   the   bleakest   month    of  winter.     The 


194  ^^^^  Return  of  The   O MaJiony. 

gloomy  spectacle,  familiar  enough  elsewhere 
throughout  Ireland,  had  still  the  fascination  of  nov- 
elt}^  in  the  eyes  of  Muirisc.  The  villagers  could 
not  keep  their  gaze  from  those  gaunt,  deserted 
walls.  Some  of  the  evicted  people — those  who  were 
too  old  or  too  young  to  get  off  to  America  and  yet 
too  hardy  to  die — still  remained  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, sleeping  in  the  ditches  and  subsisting  upon 
the  poor  charity  of  the  cottagers  roundabout.  The 
sight  of  their  skulking,  half-clad  forms  and  hunger- 
pinched  faces  filled  Muirisc  with  wrathful  humilia- 
tion. 

Almost  worst  still  were  the  airs  which  latterly 
O'Daly  had  come  to  assume.  Even  if  the  evictions 
and  the  rack-renting  could  have  been  forgiven, 
Muirisc  felt  that  his  calling  himself  The  O'Daly 
was  unpardonable.  Everybody  in  Ivehagh  knew 
that  the  O'Dalys  had  been  mere  bards  and  singers 
for  the  McCarthys,  the  O'Mahonys,  and  other 
Eugenian  houses,  and  had  not  been  above  taking 
service,  later  on,  under  the  hatred  Carews.  That 
any  scion  of  the  sept  should  exalt  himself  now,  in 
the  shoes  of  an  O'Mahony,  was  simply  intolerable. 

In  proportion  as  Cormac  waxed  in  importance, 
his  coadjutor  Jerry  had  diminished.  There  was  no 
longer  any  talk  heard  about  Diarmid  MacEgan  ; 
the  very  pigs  in  the  street  knew  him  now  to  be 
plain  Jerry  Higgins.  Only  the  most  shadowy 
pretense  of  authority  to  intermeddle  in  the  affairs 
of  the  estate  remained  to  him.  Unlettered  good- 
nature and  loyalty  had  stood  no  chance  whatever 
against  the  will  and  powers  of  the  educated  Cormac. 
Muirisc   did   indeed  cherish  a  nebulous  idea  that 


The   Great   O' Daly    Usurpation.  195 

some  time  or  other  the  popular  discontent  would 
find  him  an  effective  champion,  but  Jerry  did  noth- 
ing whatever  to  encourage  this  hope.  He  had 
grown  stout  and  red-faced  through  these  unoccu- 
pied years,  and  lived  by  himself  in  a  barely  habit- 
able nook  among  the  ruins  of  the  castle,  overlooking 
the  churchyard.  Here  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  his 
time,  behind  barred  doors  and  den3nng  himself  to 
all  visitors — and  Muirisc  had  long  since  concluded 
that  the  companion  of  his  solitude  was  a  bottle. 

"  I've  a  word  more  to  whisper  into  your  ear, 
Higgins,"  said  O'Daly,  this  very  evening,  at  the 
conclusion  of  some  unimportant  conversation  about 
the  mines. 

The  supper  had  been  cleared  away,  and  a  tray  of 
glasses  flanking  a  decanter  stood  on  the  table  at 
which  the  speaker  sat  with  his  pipe.  The  buxom 
and  rubicund  Mrs.  Fergus — for  so  Muirisc  still 
thought  and  spoke  of  her — dozed  comfortably  in 
her  arm-chair  at  one  side  of  the  bank  of  blazing 
peat  on  the  hearth,  an  open  novel  turned  down  on 
her  lap.  Opposite  her  mother,  Kate  sat  and  sewed 
in  silence,  the  while  the  men  talked.  It  was  the 
room  in  which  The  O'Mahony  had  eaten  his  first 
meal  in  Muirisc,  twelve  years  before. 

"'A  word  to  whishper,' "  repeated  O'Daly,  glanc- 
ing at  Jerry  with  severity  from  under  his  beetling 
black  brows,  and  speaking  so  loudly  that  even  Mrs. 
Sullivan  in  the  kitchen  might  have  heard — "  times 
is  that  hard,  and  work  so  scarce,  that  bechune  now 
and  midsummer  I'd  have  ye  look  about  for  a  new 
place." 

Jerry  stared  across  the  table  at  his  co-trustee  iu 


196  The  Rehirn  of  The  O" MaJiony. 

blank  amazement.  It  was  no  surprise  to  him  to  be 
addressed  in  tones  of  harsh  disliice  by  O'Daly,  or  to 
see  his  rightful  claims  to  attention  contemptuously 
ignored.  But  this  sweeping  suggestion  took  his 
breath  away. 

"  What  place  do  ye  mane  ?"  he  asked  confusedly. 
"  Where  else  in  Muirisc  c'u'd  1  live  so  aisily  ?" 

"  'T  is  not  needful  ye  should  live  in  Muirisc  at 
all,"  said  O'Daly,  with  cold-blooded  calmness. 
"  Sure,  't  is  manny  years  since  ye  were  of  anny 
service  here.  A  lad  at  two  shillings  the  week 
would  more  than  replace  ye.  In  these  bad  times, 
and  worse  comin',  't  is  impossible  ye  should  stay  on 
here  as  ye've  been  doin'  these  twelve  years.  I 
thought  I'd  tell  ye  in  sayson,  Higgins — not  to  take 
ye  unawares." 

"  Glor3^-be-to-the-world  ?"  gasped  Jerry,  sitting 
upright  in  his  chair,  and  staring  open-eyed. 

"  'T  is  a  dale  of  other  alterations  I  have  in  me 
mind,"  O'Daly  went  on,  hurriedly.  "  Sure,  things 
have  stuck  in  the  mire  far  too  long,  waiting  for  the 
comin'  to  life  of  a  dead  man.  'T  is  to  stir  'em  up  1 
will  now,  an'  no  delay.  Me  step-daughter,  there, 
takes  the  vail  in  a  few  days,  an'  't  is  me  intintion 
thin  to  rebuild  large  parts  of  the  convint,  an'  mek 
new  rules  for  it  whereby  gerrels  of  me  own  family 
can  be  free  to  enter  it  as  well  as  the  O'Mahonys. 
For,  sure,  't  is  now  well  known  an'  universally 
consaded  that  the  O'Daly's  were  the  most  intellect- 
ual an'  intelligent  family  in  all  the  two  Munsters,  be 
rayson  of  which  all  the  ignorant  an'  uncultivated 
ruffians  like  the  MacCarthys  an'  The  O'Mahony's 
used  to  be  beseechin'  'em  to  make  verses  and  write 


The   Great   O Daly    Usurpation.  197 

books  an'  divert  'cm  wici  playiii'  on  the  harp — an'  't 
is  hig-h  time  theO'Daly's  came  into  their  own  ag'in, 
the  same  that  they'd  never  lost  but  for  their  wake 
^ood-nature  in  consintin'  to  be  bards  on  account  of 
their  supayrior  education.  Why,  man,"  the  swart- 
visaged  little  lawyer  went  on,  his  black  eyes  snapping 
with  excitement — ''  what  d'  ye  say  to  me  great 
ancestor,  Cuchonnacht  O'Daly,  called  na  Sgoile,  or 
'of  the  school,'  who  died  at  Clonard,  rest  his  soul, 
Anno  Domini  1139,  the  most  celebrated  pote  of  all 
Oireland  ?  An'  do  ye  mind  thim  eight  an'  twenty 
other  O'Dalj-s  in  rigular  descint  who  achaved 
distincthion — " 

"  Egor !     If    they  were  all    such   thieves  of    the 

earth   as  you   are,   the    world's  d d   well   rid  of 

'em!"  burst  in  Jerry  Higgins. 

He  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  stood  now  hot- 
faced  and  with  clenched  fists,  glaring  down  upon 
O'Daly. 

The  latter  pushed  back  his  chair  and  instinctively 
raised  an  elbow  to  guard  his  head. 

"  Have  a  care,  Higgins!"  he  shouted  out — "you're 
in  the  [)resence  of  witnesses — I'm  a  p'aceable  man 
—  in  me  own  domicile,  too!" 

"  I'll  '  dommycille  '  ye,  ye  blagyard  !"  Jerry 
snorted,  throwing  his  burly  form  half  over  the 
table. 

"  Ah,  thin,  Jerry  !  Jerry !"  A  clear,  bell-toned 
voice  rang  in  his  confused  ears,  and  he  felt  the  grasp 
of  a  vigorous  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Is  it  mad  ye 
are,  Jerry,  to  think  of  striking  the  likes  of  him  ?" 

Kate  stood  at  his  side.  The  mere  touch  of  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve  would  have  sufficed  for  restraint, 


198  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

but  she  gripped  his  arm  sharpl}^,  and  turned  upon 
him  a  gaze  of  stern  reproval. 

"'Tis  elsewhere  ye  left  your  manners,  Jerry!" 
she  said,  in  a  calm  enough  voice,  though  her  bosom 
was  heaving.  "  When  our  bards  became  insolent 
or  turned  rogues,  they  were  sent  outside  to  be 
beaten.  'T  was  niver  done  in  the  presence  of 
ladies." 

Jerry's  puzzled  look  showed  how  utterly  he  failed 
to  grasp  her  meaning.  There  was  no  such  perplex- 
ity in  O'Daly's  mind.  He,  too,  had  risen,  and  stood 
on  the  hearth  beside  his  wife,  who  blinked  vacuous 
inquiries  sleepily  at  the  various  members  of  the 
group  in  turn. 

"And  %ve,''  he  said,  with  nervous  asperity,  "  when 
our  children  become  impertinent,  we  trounce  them 
off  to  their  bed." 

"  Ah-h  !  No  child  of  yours,  O'Daly  !"  the  girl 
made  scornful  answer,  in  measured  tones. 

"  Well,  thin,"  the  little  man  snarled,  vehemently, 
"  while  ye're  under  my  roof.  Miss  O'Mahony,  3^e'll 
heed  what  I  say,  an'  be  ruled  by  't.  An'  now  ye 
force  me  to  't,  mark  this:  I'll  have  no  more  of  your 
gaddin'  about  with  that  old  bag-o'-bones  of  a  Mur- 
phy. 'T  is  not  dacint  or  fittin'  for  a  young  lady — 
more  especially  when  she's  to  be  a — wanderin'  the 
Lord  knows  where,  or — " 

Kate  broke  in  upon  his  harangue  with  shrill 
laughter,  half  hysterical. 

"  Is  it  an  O'Daly  that  I  hear  discoorsin*  on  dacency 
to  an  O'Mahony  !"  she  called  out,  ironically  incredu- 
lous. "Well,  thin — while  that  I'm  under  your 
roof — •" 


The  Great   O Daly   Usurpation.  199 

"  Eo^or  !  Who  made  it  his  roof  ?"  demanded  Jerr}-. 
"  Shure,  be  the  papers  The  O'Mahony  wrote  out 
wid  his  own  hand  lor  us — " 

"  Don't  be  interruptin',  Jerry  !"  said  Kate,  again 
with  a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm.  "  1  say  this, 
O'Daly  :  The  time  I  stop  under  this  roof  will  be  just 
that  while  that  it  takes  me  to  put  on  me  hat.  Not 
an  instant  longer  will  I  stay." 

She  walked  proudly  erect  to  the  chest  in  the 
corner,  took  up  her  hat  and  put  it  on  her  head. 

"Come  now,  Jerry,"  she  said,  "  I'll  walk  wid  you 
to  me  cousins,  the  Ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears. 
'T  will  be  grand  news  to  thim  that  the  O'Dalys  have 
come  into  their  ozvn  ag'in  !" 

Cormac  O'Daly  instinctively  moved  toward  the 
door  to  bar  her  egress.  Then  a  glance  at  Jerr3''s 
heavy  fists  and  angered  face  bred  intuition  of  a 
different  kind,  and  he  stepped  back  again. 

"  Mind,  once  for  all  !  I'll  not  have  ye  here  ag'in 
— neither  one  or  other  of  ye  !"  he  shouted. 

Kate  disdained  response  by  even  so  much  as  a 
look.  She  moved  over  to  the  arm-chair,  and,  stoop- 
ing for  an  instant,  lighth^  brushed  with  her  lips  the 
flattened  crimps  which  adorned  the  maternal  fore- 
head. Then,  with  head  high  in  air  and  a  tread  of 
exaggerated  stateliness,  she  led  the  way  lor  Jerry 
out  of  the  room  and  the  house. 

Mrs.  Fergus  heard  the  front  door  close  with  a 
resounding  clang,  and  the  noise  definitely  awakened 
her.  She  put  up  a  correcting  hand,  and  passed  it 
over  her  front  hair.  Then  she  yawned  meditatively 
at  the  fire,  and,  lifting  the  steaming  kettle  from  the 
crane,  filled  one  of  the  glasses  on  the  tray  with   hot 


200  The  Retui'-n  of  The   G Mahony. 

water.  Then  she  permitted  herself  a  drowsy  half- 
smile  at  the  disordered  appearance  presented  by  her 
infuriated  spouse. 

"  Well,  thin,  'tis  not  in  Mother  Agnes  O'Mahony's 
shoes  I'm  wishin'  ;/rj/self !"  she  said,  upon  reflection. 
'■  It's  right  ye  are  to  build  thick  new  walls  to  the 
convint.     They'll  be  needed,  wid  that  girl  inside  !" 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A   BARGAIN   WITH   THE   BURIED    MAN. 

Though  by  daylight  there  seemed  to  lie  but  a 
step  of  space  between  the  ruined  Castle  of  Muirisc 
and  the  portal  of  the  Convent  of  the  Hostage's 
Tears,  it  was  different  under  the  soft,  starlit  sky  of 
this  April  evening.  The  way  was  long  enough,  at 
all  events,  for  the  exchange  of  many  views  between 
Kate  and  Jerry. 

"  'Tis  flat  robbery  he  manes,  Jerry,"  the  girl  said, 
as  the  revolted  twain  passed  out  together  under  the 
gateway.  "  With  me  safe  in  the  convint,  sure  he's 
free  to  take  everything  for  his  son — me  little  step- 
brother— an'  thin  there's  an  ind  to  the  O'Mahony's, 
here  where  they've  been  lords  of  the  coast  an'  the 
mountains  an'  the  castles  since  before  St.  Patrick's 
time — an',  luk  ye!  an  O'Daly  comes  on  !  Pm  fit  to 
tear  out  me  eyes  to  keep  them  from  the  sight !" 

"But,  Miss  Katie,"  put  in  Jerrj^,  eagerly,  "  Pve  a 
thought  in  me  head — egor  !  The  O'Mahony  him- 
self put  writin'  to  paper,  statin'  how  every  blessed 
thing  was  to  be  yours,  the  day  he  sailed  away. 
Surfe  'twas  meself  was  witness  to  that   same,  along 

[20I] 


202  The  Rct7irii  of  The   G Mahony. 

wid  O'Daly  an'  your  mother  an'  the  nuns.  To-mor- 
row I'll  have  the  law  on  him  !" 

"  Ah,  Jerry,"  the  girl  sighed  and  shook  her  head  ; 
"  3'e've  a  good  heart,  but  it's  only  grief  ye'll  get 
tryin'  to  match  your  wits  against  O'Daly's.  What 
do  you  know  about  papers  an'  documents,  an'  the 
like  of  that,  compared  wid  him  ?  Why,  man,  he's 
an  attorney  himself!  'T  is  thim  that  putts  the  law 
on  other  people — worse  luck!" 

"An'  him  that  usen't  to  have  a  word  for  anny- 
thing  but  the  praises  of  The  O'Mahonys  !"  exclaimed 
Jerry,  lost  once  more  in  surprise  at  the  scope  of 
O'Daly's  ambitions. 

"I,  for  one,  never  thrusted  him  !"  said  Kate,  with 
emphasis.  "  'T  was  not  in  nature  that  anny  man 
could  be  that  humble  an'  devoted  to  a  famil)'^  that 
wasn't  his  own,  as  he  pretinded." 

"  Well,  I  dunno,"  began  Jerry,  hesitatingly  ;  "  't  is 
my  belafe  he  mint  honest  enough,  till  that  boy  o'  his 
was  born.  A  childless  man  is  wan  thing,  an'  a 
father's  another.  'T  is  that  boy  that's  turnin* 
O'Daly's  head.'' 

Kate's  present  mood  was  intolerant  of  philosophy. 
"  Faith,  Jerry,"  she  said,  with  sharpness,  "  't  is  my 
belafe  that  if  wan  was  to  abuse  the  divil  in  your 
hearin',  you'd  say  :  '  At  anny  rate,  he  has  a  fine, 
grand  tail.'  "  ^ 

Jerry's  round  face  beamed  in  the  vague  starlight 
with  a  momentary  smile.  "  Ah,  thin.  Miss  Katie!" 
he  said,  in  gentle  deprecation.  Then,  as  upon  a 
hasty  afterthought:  "Egor!  I'll  talk  with  Father 
Jago"' 

"  Ye'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind !"  Kate  commanded. 


A  Bargain  with  the  Buried  Man,     203 

"  He's  a  young  man,  an'  he's  not  Muirisc  born,  an' 
he's  O'Daly's  fri'nd,  naturally  enough,  an'  he's  the 
chaplain  of  the  convint.  Sure,  with  half  an  eye,  ye 
can  see  that  O'Daly's  got  the  convint  on  his  side. 
My  taking  the  vail  will  profit  thim,  as  well  as  him. 
Sure,  that's  the  point  of  it  all." 

*'  Thin  why  not  putt  yer  fut  down,"  asked  Jerry, 
"  an'  say  ye  '11  tek  no  vail  at  all  ?" 

"  I  gave  me  word,"  she  answered,  simply. 

"  But  ais}'  enough — ye  can  say  as  Mickey  Dugan 
did  on  the  gallus,  to  the  hangman  :  '  Egor!'  said  he, 
'  I've  changed  my  mind.'  " 

"We  don't  be  changin' ^z^r  minds!"  said  Kate, 
with  proud  brevity  ;  and  thereupon  she  ran  up  the 
convent  steps,  and,  after  a  little  space,  filled  with 
the  sound  of  jangling  bells  and  the  rattle  of  bars  and 
chains,  disappeared. 

Jerry  pursued  the  small  remnant  of  his  home- 
ward course  in  a  deep,  brown  stud}'.  He  entered 
his  abode  by  the  churchyard  postern,  bolted  the 
door  behind  him  and  lighted  a  lamp,  still  in  an 
absent-minded  way.  Such  flickering  rays  as  pierced 
the  smoky  chimney  cast  feeble  illumination  upon  a 
sort  of  castellated  hovel — a  high,  stone-walled  room 
with  arched  doorways  and  stately,  vaulted  ceiling 
above,  but  with  the  rude  furniture  and  squalid  dis- 
order of  a  laborer's  cottage  below. 

But  another  idea  did  occur  to  him  while  he  sat  on 
the  side  of  his  bed,  vacantly  staring  at  the  floor — an 
idea  which  set  his  shrewd,  brown  eyes  aglow.  He 
rose  hastil}',  took  a  lantern  down  from  a  nail  on  the 
whitewashed  wall  and  lighted  it.  Then  with  a  key 
from  his  pocket,  he  unlocked  a  door  at  the  farther 


204  The  Return  of  The  OMahony. 

end  of  the  room,  behind  the  bed, and  passed  through 
the  open  passage,  with  a  springing  step,  into  the 
darkness  of  a  low,  stone-walled  corridor. 

The  staircase  down  which  we  saw  the  guns  and 
powder  carried  in  secrecy,  on  that  February  night 
in  1867,  led  Jerry  to  the  concealed  doorway  in  the 
rounded  wall  which  had  been  discovered.  He 
applied  the  needful  trick  to  open  this  door;  then 
carefully  closed  it  behind  him,  and  made  his  way, 
crouching  and  stealthil}^  through  the  passage  to  the 
door  at  its  end.  This  he  opened  with  another  key 
and  entered  abruptly. 

"  God  save  all  here  !"  he  called  out  upon  the 
threshold,  in  the  half-jesting,  half-sincere  tone  of  one 
who,  using  an  ancient  formula  at  the  outset  by  way 
of  irony,  grows  to  feel  that  he  means  what  it  says. 

"  God  save  you  kindly  !  '  was  the  prompt  response, 
in  a  thin,  strangely  vibrant  voice  :  and  on  the  instant 
the  speaker  came  forward  into  firelight. 

He  w^as  a  slender  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  pale, 
spectacled  face,  framed  by  a  veritable  mane  of  dingy 
reddish  hair  thrown  back  from  temples  and  brow. 
This  brow,  thus  bared,  was  broad  and  thoughtful 
besides  being  wonderfully  white,  and,  with  the  calm 
gray  eyes,  which  shone  steadily  through  the  glasses, 
seemed  to  constitute  practically  the  whole  face. 
There  were,  one  noted  at  a  second  glance,  other 
portions  of  this  face — a  weak,  pointed  nose,  for 
example,  and  a  mouth  and  chin  hidden  under  irreg- 
ular outlines  of  straggling  beard  ;  but  the  brow  and 
the  eyes  were  what  the  gaze  returned  to.  The  man 
wore  a  loose,  nondescript  sort  of  gown,  gathered  at 


A  Bargain   with  the  Bia-ied  Man.      205 

the  waist  with  a  cord.  Save  for  a  table  against  the 
wall,  littered  with  papers  and  writing  materials  and 
lighted  by  a  lamp  in  a  bracket  above,  the  chamber 
differed  in  little  from  its  appearance  on  that  memor- 
able night  when  the  dead  monk's  sleep  of  centuries 
had  been  so  rudely  broken  in  upon. 

"  I'm  glad  3-e've  come  down  ag'in  to-day,"  said 
the  man  of  the  brow  and  eyes.  "  Since  this  mornin', 
I've  traced  out  the  idintity  of  Finghin — the  one  wid 
the  .brain-ball  I  told  ye  of — as  clear  as  daylight. 
Not  a  man-jack  of  'em  but  '11  see  it  now  like  the  nose 
on  their  face." 

"Ah,  thin,  that's  a  mercy,"  said  Jerry,  seating 
himself  tentatively  on  a  corner  of  the  table.  "  Egor! 
It  looked  at  one  toime  there  as  if  his  identity  was 
gone  to  the  divil  intoirely.  But  I'ave  you  to  smoke 
him  out !" 

"  It  can  be  proved  that  this  Finghin  is  wan  an' 
the  same  wid  the  so-called  Fiachan  Roe,  who 
married  the  widow  of  the  O'Dubhagain,  in  the 
elevinth  cintury." 

"  Ah,  there  ye  have  it !"  said  Jerry,  shaking  his 
head  dejectedly.  "  He  iviid  marry  a  widdeh,  w'u'd 
he  ?  Thin,  be  me  sowl,  'tis  a  marvel  to  grace  he  had 
anny  idint — whatever  ye  call  it — left  at  all.  Well, 
sir,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  'tis  disappointed  I  am  in 
Finghin.  I  credited  him  with  more  sinse  than  to  be 
marryin'  widdehs.  An'  I  suppose  ye'll  I'ave  him  out 
of  your  book  altogether  now.  Egor,  an'  serve  him 
right,  too  !" 

The  other  smiled ;  a  wan  and  fleeting  smile  of  the 
eyes  and  brow. 

"  Ah,  don't  be  talkin  !"    he  said,  pleasantly,  and 


2o6  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

then  added,  with  a  sigh  :  "  More  like  he'll  I'ave 
me,  wid  me  work  undone.  You'll  bear  me  witness, 
sir,  that  I've  been  patient,  an'  thried  me  best  to  live 
continted  here  in  this  cave  of  the  earth,  an'  busy  me 
mind  wid  work;  but  no  man  can  master  his  drames. 
'Tis  that  that's  killin'  me.  Every  night,  the  moment 
I'm  asleep,  faith,  I'm  out  in  the  meadehs,  wid  flowers 
on  the  ditches  an'  birds  singin',  an'  me  fishin'  in  the 
brook,  like  1  was  a  boy  ag'in  ;  an'  whin  I  wake  up,  me 
heart's  broke  intirely  !  I  tell  ye,  man,  if  't  wasn't  for 
me  book  here,  I'd  go  outside  in  spite  of  'em  all',  an' 
let  'em  hang  me,  if  they  like — jist  for  wan  luk  at  the 
sky  an'  wan  breath  of  fresh  air." 

Jerry  swung  his  legs  nonchalantly,  but  there  was 
a  new  speculation  twinkling  in  his  e3'es  as  he 
regarded  his  companion. 

'*  Ah,  it  won't  be  long  now,  Major  Lynch,"  he 
said,  consolingly.  "  An'  have  ye  much  more  to  state 
in  your  book?" 

"  All  the  translatin*  was  finished  long  since,  but 
't  is  comparin'  the  various  books  together  I  am,  an' 
that  takes  a  dale  o'  time.  There's  the  psalter  o' 
Timoleague  Abbey,  an'  the  psalter  o'  Sherkin,  an' 
the  book  o'  St.  Kian  o'  Cape  Clear,  besides  all  the 
riccords  of  Muirisc  that  lay  loose  in  the  chest.  Yet 
I'm  far  from  complainin*.  God  knows  what  I'd  a' 
done  without  'em." 

There  are  many  marvels  in  Irish  archaeology. 
Perhaps  the  most  wonderful  of  all  is  the  controlling 
and  consuming  spell  it  had  cast  over  Linksy,  mak- 
ing it  not  only  possible  for  him  to  live  twelve  ^^ears 
in  an  underground  dungeon,  fairly  contented,  and 
undoubtedly   occupied,  but  lifting  him   bodily  out 


A  Bill' gain  witJi  the  Bu7^ied  Man.      207 

of  his  former  mental  state  and  up  into  an  atmos- 
phere of  scholarly  absorption  and  exclusively 
intellectual  exertion.  He  had  entered  upon  this 
long  imprisonment  with  only  an  ordinary  high- 
school  education,  and  no  special  interest  in  or  bent 
toward  books.  By  the  merest  chance  he  happened 
to  have  learned  to  speak  Irish,  as  a  boy,  and,  later, 
to  have  been  taught  the  written  alphabet  of  the 
language.  Hi?  first  days  of  solitude  in  the  sub- 
terranean chamber,  after  his  recovery  from  the 
terrible  blow  on  the  head,  had  been  whiled  away 
by  glancing  over  the  curious  parchment  writings 
and  volumes  in  the  chest.  Then,  to  kill  time,  he 
had  essayed  to  translate  one  of  the  manuscripts,  and 
Jerry  had  obligingly  furnished  him  with  paper, 
pens  and  ink.  To  have  laboriously  traced  out  the 
doubtful  thread  of  continuity  running  through  the 
confused  and  legendary  pedigrees  of  the  fierce 
Eugenian  septs,  to  have  lived  for  twelve  long  years 
buried  in  ancient  Munster  genealogies,  wearing  the 
eyesight  out  in  waking  hours  upon  archaic  manu- 
scripts, and  dreaming  by  night  of  still  more  unde- 
cipherable parchment  chronicles,  may  well  seem  to 
us,  who  are  out  in  the  busy  noonday  of  the  world, 
a  colossal  waste  of  time.  No  publisher  alive  would 
have  thought  for  a  moment  of  printing  Linsky's 
compilations  at  his  own  risk,  and  probably  not 
more  than  twenty  people  would  have  regretted  his 
refusal  the  whole  world  over.  But  this  considera- 
tion has  never  operated  yet  to  prevent  archaeo- 
logists from  devoting  their  time  and  energies  and 
fortunes  to  works  which  nobody  on  earth  is  going 
to  read,  much  less  publish. 


2o8  Tlie  RetiLrn  of  The  O' Makony. 

Jerry  was  still  contemplating  Linsky  with  a  grave 
new  interest. 

"  Ye've  changed  that  much  since — since  ye  came 
down  here  for  your  health.  'Tis  my  belafe  not  a 
mother's  son  of  'em  'u'd  recognize  ye  up  above,"  he 
said,  reflectively. 

Linsky  spoke  with  eagerness  : 

"  Man  alive  !     I'm  jist  dyin'  to  make  the  attimpt !" 

"  What — an'  turn  yer  back  on  all  these  foine  ric- 
cords  an'  statements  that  ye've  kept  yer  hand  to  so 
long?" 

The  other's  face  fell. 

"  Sure,  1  c'u'd  come  down  ag'in,"  Linsky  said, 
hesitatingl}". 

"  We'll  see  ;  we'll  see,"  remarked  Jerry.  Then,  in 
a  careless  manner,  as  if  he  had  not  had  this  chiefly 
in  mind  from  the  beginning,  he  asked :  "  Usen't  ye 
to  be  tellin'  me  ye  were  a  kind  of  an  attorney, 
Major  Lynch  ?" 

"  I  was  articled  to  an  attorney,  wance  upon  a 
time,  but  I'd  no  time  to  sthick  to  it." 

"  But  ye'd  know  how  to  hev  the  law  on  a  man,  if 
he  was  yer  inemy  ?" 

"  Some  of  it  is  in  me  mind  still,  maybe,"  replied 
Linsky,  not  with  much  confidence. 

Jerry  sprang  lightly  down  from  the  table,  walked 
over  to  the  fire,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  his 
legs  wide  apart  and  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  arm- 
holes,  as  he  had  seen  The  O'Mahony  bear  himself. 

"  Well,  Linsky,  I've  a  bargain  to  offer  ye,"  he  said, 
bluntly. 

Linsky  stared  in  wild-eyed  amazement.  He  had 
not  heard  the  sound  of  this  name  of  his  for  years. 


A   Baj'gaiii  iviih  the  Buried  Man.      209 

"  What — what  was  that  name  ye  called  '*"  he 
asked,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"Ah,  it's  all  right,"  remarked  Jerry,  with  assur- 
ance. "  Faith,  1  knew  ye  wor  Linsky  from  the 
beginning.  An'  bechune  ourselves,  that's  but  a 
drop  in  the  bucket  to  the  rest  I  know." 

Linsky's  surprise  paralyzed  his  tongue.  He 
could  only  pluck  nervously  at  the  cord  about  his 
Avaist  and  gaze  in  confusion  at  his  jailer-friend. 

"  You  believed  all  this  time  that  ye  were  hid 
away  down  here  by  your  fri'nds,  to  save  ye  from 
the  poliss,  who  were  scourin'  the  counthry  to  arrest 
Fenians.  Am  I  right  ?"  Jerr}'  asked,  with  a  dawn- 
ing smile  on  his  red  face. 

The  other  nodded  mechanically,  still  in  complete 
mystification. 

"  An'  3'-ou  all  the  time  besachin'  to  go  out  an'  take 
yer  chances,  an'  me  forever  tell  in'  ye  'twould  be  the 
ruin  of  the  whole  thund'rin'  Brotherhood  if  ye  were 
caught?"  Jerry  continued,  the  smile  ripening  as  he 
went  on. 

Again  Linsky's  answer  was  a  puzzled  nod  of 
acquiescence. 

"  Well,  thin,  there's  no  Brotherhood  left  at  all,  an' 
't  is  manny  years  since  the  poliss  in  these  parts  had 
so  much  as  a  drarae  of  you  or  of  anny  Fenian  under 
the  sun." 

"  But  why,"  stammered  Linsky,  at  last  finding 
voice — "  why — thin — " 

"Why  are  ye  here?"  Jerry  amiably  asked  the 
question  for  him.  "  Only  a  small  matther  of  disci- 
pline, as  his  reverence  w'u'd  say,  when  he  ordered 
peas  in  our  boots.     To  be  open  an'  above-board  wid 


2IO  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

ye,  man,  ye  were  caught  attimptin'  to  hand  over 
the  lot  of  us  to  the  sojers,  that  day  we  tried  to  take 
the  fort.  'T  is  the  gallus  we  might  'a'  got  by 
rayson  of  your  informin'.     Do  ye  deny  that  same?" 

Linsky  made  no  answer,  but  he  looked  now  at  the 
floor  instead  of  at  Jerry.  In  truth,  he  had  been  so 
long  immured,  confronted  daily  with  the  pretense 
that  he  was  being  hidden  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
castle's  myrmidons,  that  this  sudden  resurrection  of 
the  truth  about  his  connection  with  Fenianisni 
seemed  almost  to  refer  to  somebod}-  else. 

"  Well,  thin,"  pursued  Jerry,  taking  instant  ad- 
vantage of  the  other's  confusion,  "  egor,  't  was  as  a 
traitor  ye  were  tried  an'  condimned  an'  sintenced, 
while  ye  lay,  sinseless  wid  that  whack  on  the  head. 
There  wor  thim  that  w'u'd — uv — uv — well,  not  seen 
ye  wake  this  side  of  purgatory,  or  wherever  else  ye 
had  yer  ticket  for.  But  there  was  wan  man  that 
saved  yer  life  from  the  rest — and  he  said  :  *  No, 
don't  kill  him,  an*  don't  bate  him  or  lay  a  finger  to 
him,  an'  I'll  be  at  tiie  expinse  of  keepin'  him  in  a 
fine,  grand  place  by  himsilf,  wid  food  of  the  best, 
an'  whishky  aich  day,  an'  books  an'  writin's  to  im- 
prove his  learnin',  an'  no  work  to  do,  an'  maybe, 
be  the  grace  o'  God,  he'll  come  to  think  rightly 
about  it  all,  an'  be  ashamed  of  himsilf  an'  his  dirty 
doin's,  an  be  fit  ag'in  to  come  out  an'  hold  up  his 
head  amongst  honest  min.'  That's  the  m'anin'  of 
what  he  said,  an'  I'm  the  man  he  said  it  to — an' 
that's  why  I'm  here  now,  callin'  ye  by  3'er  right 
name,  an'  tellin'  ye  the  thruth." 

Linsky  hesitated  for  a  minute  or  two,  with  down- 
cast  gaze   and   fingers  fidgeting  at   the  ends  of  his 


A  Bargain  ivilh   the  Ihiricci  Man.       2  1 1 

waist-cord.  Then  he  lifted  his  face,  which  more 
than  ever  seemed  all  brow  and  eyes,  and  looked 
frankly  at  Jerry. 

"  What  ye  say  is  a  surprise  to  me,"  he  began, 
choosing  his  words  as  he  went.  "Ye  never  let  on 
what  your  thoughts  were  concernin'  me,  an'  I  grew 
to  forget  how  it  was  1  came.  But  now  you  spake 
of  it,  sure  'tis  the  same  to  me  as  if  I'd  niver  been 
thinkin'  of  anything  else.  Oh,  thin,  tell  that  man 
who  spoke  up  for  me,  whoever  he  may  be,  that  I've 
no  word  but  praise  for  him.  'T  was  a  poor  divil  of 
a  wake  fool  he  saved  the  life  of." 

"  Wid  a  mixin'  of  rogue  as  well,"  put  in  Jerry,  by 
way  of  conscientious  parenthesis. 

"  'Tisthe  same  thing — the  worst  fool  is  the  rogue  ; 
but  I  tuk  to  't  to  keep  soul  an'  body  together. 
Sure,  I  got  into  throuble  in  Cork,  as  manny  another 
boy  did  before  me,  an'  fied  to  Ameriky,  an'  there  I 
listed,  an'  came  in  at  the  tail  of  the  war,  an'  was  shot 
down  an'  robbed  where  I  lay,  an'  was  in  the  hospital 
for  months;  an'  whin  1  came  out  divil  a  thing  was 
there  for  me  to  putt  me  hand  to  ;  an'  the  Fenians 
was  started,  an'  1  j'ined  'em.  An'  there  was  a  man 
I  knew  who  made  a  livin'  be  sellin'  information  of 
what  winton,  an'  the  same  offer  came  to  me  through 
him — an'  me  starvin';  an'  that's  the  way  of  it." 

"  An'  a  notorious  bad  way,  at  that !"  said  Jerr}^ 
sternly, 

''  I'm  of  that  same  opinion,"  Linsky  went  on,  in  all 
meakness.  "  Don't  think  I'm  defindin'  meself.  But 
1  declare  to  ye,  whin  1  look  back  on  it,  't  is  not  like 
it  was  meself  at  all." 

"  Ay,  there  ye  have  it !"  exclaimed  Jerry.     "  Luk 


212  TJie  Reticrn  of  The   G MaJioiiy. 

now  !  Mill  do  be  changin'  and  alterin*  all  the  while. 
I  know  a  man — an  old  man — who  used  to  be  honest 
an'  fair-spoken,  an'  that  devoted  to  a  certain  family, 
egor,  he'd  laid  down  his  life  for  'em  ;  an'  now,  be 
rayson  that  he  's  married  a  widdeh,  an'  got  a  boy  of 
his  own,  what  did  he  but  turn  rogue  an'  lie  awake 
nights  schamin'  to  rob  that  same  family  !  'Tis  that 
way  we  are!  An'  so  wid3^ou,  Linsky, 'tis  my  belafe 
that  ye  began  badly,  an'  that  ye  're  minded  to  ind 
well.  Ye  're  not  the  man  ye  were  at  all.  'T  is  part 
by  rayson,  I  think,  of  your  studyin'  in  thim  holy 
books,  an'  part,  too,"  his  e3'es  twinkled  as  he  added, 
"  be  rayson  of  enjoyin'  my  society  every  day," 

Linsky  passed  the  humorous  suggestion  by  un- 
heeded, his  every  perception  concentrated  upon 
the  tremendous  possibility  which  had  with  such 
strange  suddenness  opened  before  him. 

"  An'  what  is  it  ye  have  in  mind  ?"  he  asked 
breathlessly.     "  There  was  word  of  a  bargain." 

"  'Tis  this,"  explained  Jerry  :  "  An  old  thief  of 
the  earth — him  I  spoke  of  that  married  the  widdeh 
— is  ,for  robbin'  an'  plunderin'  the  man  that  saved 
your  life.  There's  more  to  the  tale  than  I'm  tellin'  yc, 
but  that's  the  way  of  it;  an'  I'll  die  for  it  but  I'll 
prevint  him  ;  an'  't  is  be3^ant  my  poor  wits  to  do  that 
same  ;  an'  so  't  is  your  help  I'm  needin'.  An'  there 
ye  have  it !" 

The  situation  thus  outlined  did  not  meet  the  full 
measure  of  Linsky 's  expectations.     His  face  fell. 

"  Sure  ye  might  have  had  me  advice  in  anny 
case,"  he  said  "  if  that's  all  it  comes  to  ;  but  I  thought 
I  was  goin'  out." 


A  Bargain  with  the  Buried  Man.      2 1 3 

"  An'  why  not?"  answered  Jerr)\  "  Who's  stop- 
pin'  ye  but  me,  an'  me  needin'  ye  outside?" 

Linsky's  eyes  glowed  radiantly  through  their 
glasses. 

"Oh,  but  I'll  come!"  he  exclaimed.  "An'  what- 
ever ye  bid  me  that  I'll  do!" 

"  Ah,  but,"  Jerry  shook  his  head  dubiously,  "  't  is 
you  that  must  be  biddin'  me  what  to  do." 

"  To  the  best  of  me  power  that  I'll  do,  too,"  the 
other  affirmed  ;   and  the  two  men  shook  hands. 

"  On  to-morrow  I'll  get  clothes  for  3^e  at  Bantry," 
Jerry  said,  an  hour  later,  at  the  end  of  the  confer- 
ence they  had  been  holding,  "  an'  nixt  day  we'll 
inthroduce  ye  to  daylight  an'  to — O'Daly." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

NEAR   THE   SUMMIT   OF   MT.    GABRIEL. 

A  vast  sunlit  landscape  under  a  smiling-  April 
sky — a  landscape  beyond  the  uses  of  mere  painters 
with  their  tubes  and  brushes  and  camp-stools,  where 
leagues  of  mountain  ranges  melted  away  into  the 
shimmering  haze  of  distance,  and  where  the  myriad 
armlets  of  the  blue  Atlantic  in  view,  winding  them- 
selves about  their  lovers,  the  headlands,  and  placidly 
nursing  their  children,  the  islands,  marked  as  on  a 
map  the  coastwise  journeys  of  a  month — stretched 
itself  out  before  the  gaze  of  young  Bernard 
O'Mahony,  of  Houghton  County,  Michigan — and 
was  scarcely  thanked  for  its  pains. 

The  3'oung  man  had  completed  four-fifths  of  the 
ascent  of  Mount  Gabriel,  from  the  Dunmanus  side, 
and  sat  now  on  a  moss-capped  boulder,  nominally 
meditating  upon  the  splendors  of  the  panorama 
spread  out  before  him,  but  in  truth  thinking  deeply 
of  other  things.  He  had  not  brought  a  gun,  this 
time,  but  had  in  his  hand  a  small,  brand-new  ham- 
mer, with  which,  from  time  to  time,  to  point  the 
shifting  phases  of  his  reverie,  he  idly  tapped  the  up- 
turned sole  of  the  foot  resting  on  his  knee. 
[214] 


Near  the  Summit  of  Mt.    Gabriel.       215 

From  this  coign  of  vantage  he  could  make  out 
the  white  walls  and  thatches  of  at  least  a  dozen 
hamlets,  scattered  over  the  space  of  thrice  as  man}' 
miles.  Such  of  these  as  stood  inland  he  did  not 
observe  a  second  time.  There  were  others,  more  dis- 
tant, which  lay  close  to  the  bay,  and  these  he  stud- 
ied intently  as  he  mused,  his  eyes  roaming  along  the 
coast-line  from  one  to  another  in  baffled  perplexity. 
There  was  nothing  obscure  about  them,  so  far  as 
his  vision  went.  Everything — the  innumerable 
croft-walls  dividing  the  wretched  land  below  him 
into  holdings  ;  the  dark  umber  patches  where  the 
bog  had  been  cut ;  the  serried  layers  of  gray  reck 
sloping  transversely  down  the  mountain-side,  each 
Avith  its  crown  of  canary-blossomed  furze  ;  the  wide 
stretches  of  desolate  plain  beyond,  where  no  human 
habitation  could  be  seen,  yet  where  he  knew  thous- 
ands of  poor  creatures  lived,  all  the  same,  in  moss- 
hidden  hovels  in  the  nooks  of  the  rocks;  the  pale 
sheen  on  the  sea  still  further  away,  as  it  slept  in  the 
sunlight  at  the  feet  of  the  cliffs — everything  was  as 
sharp  and  distinct  as  the  picture  in  a  telescope. 

But  all  this  did  not  help  him  to  guess  where  the 
young  woman  in  the  broad,  black  hat  lived. 

Bernard  had  thought  a  great  deal  about  this 
young  woman  during  the  forty-eight  hours  which 
had  elapsed  since  she  stood  up  in  the  boat  and 
waved  her  hand  to  him  in  farewell.  In  a  guarded 
way  he  had  made  some  inquiries  at  Goleen,  where 
he  was  for  the  moment  domiciled,  but  only  to  learn 
that  people  on  the  east  side  of  the  peninsula  are  con- 
scious of  no  interest  whatever  in  the  people  reputed 
to  live  on  the  west  side.     They  are  six  or  eight  Irish 


2i6  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

miles  apart,  and  there  is  high  hind  between  them. 
No  one  in  Goleen  could  tell  him  anything  about  a 
beautiful  dark  young  woman  with  a  broad,  black 
hat.  He  felt  that  they  did  not  even  properly 
imagine  to  themselves  what  he  meant.  In  Goleen 
the  young  women  are  not  beautiful,  and  they  wear 
shawls  on  their  heads,  not  hats. 

Then  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  investigating 
the  west  shore  for  himself.  On  the  map  in  his 
guide-book  this  seemed  a  simple  enough  undertak- 
ing, but  now,  as  he  let  his  gaze  wander  again  along 
the  vast  expanse  of  ragged  and  twisted  coast-line,  he 
saw  that  it  would  mean  the  work  of  many  days. 

And  then — then  he  saw  something  else — a  vision 
which  fairly  took  his  breath  away. 

Along  the  furze-hedge  road  which  wound  its  way 
up  the  mountain-side  from  Dunmanus  and  the 
south,  two  human  figures  were  moving  toward  him, 
slowly,  and  still  at  a  considerable  distance.  One  of 
these  figures  was  that  of  a  woman,  and — yes,  it  was 
a  woman  ! — and  she  wore  a  hat — as  like  as  could  be 
to  that  broad-brimmed,  black  hat  he  had  been 
dreaming  of.  Bernard  permitted  himself  no  doubts. 
He  was  of  the  age  of  miracles.  Of  course  it  was 
she  ! 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  slid  down  off 
his  rocky  perch  and  seated  himself  behind  a  clump 
of  furze.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  disclose  his 
presence — if,  indeed  he  did  at  all — when  she  had 
come  up  to  him. 

No  such  temptation  to  secrecy  besets  us.  We 
may  freel}''  hasten  down  the  mountain-side  to  where 
Kate,  walking  slowly  and  pausing  from  time  to  time 


Ncai'-  the  Summit  of  Mt.    Gabriel.       217 

to  look  back  upon  the  broadening  sweep  oi  land 
and  sea  below  her,  was  making  the  ascent  of  Mount 
Gabriel. 

Poor  old  Murphy  had  been  left  behind,  much 
against  his  will,  to  nurse  and  bemoan  his  swollen 
ankle.  The  companion  this  time  was  a  3-ounger 
brother  of  the  missing  Malach}',  a  lumpish,  silent 
"  boy  "  of  twenty-five  or  six,  who  slouched  along  a 
few  paces  behind  his  mistress  and  bore  the  luncheon 
basket.  This  young  man  was  known  to  all  Muirisc 
as  John  Pat,  which  was  by  way  of  distinguishing  him 
from  the  other  Johns  who  were  not  also  Patricks. 
As  it  was  now  well  on  toward  nine  centuries  since 
the  good  Brian  Boru  ordained  that  every  Irishman 
should  have  a  surname,  the  presumption  is  that  John 
Pat  did  possess  such  a  thing,  but  feudal  Muirisc 
never  dreamed  of  suggesting  its  common  use.  This 
surname  had  been  heard  at  his  baptism  ;  it  might  be 
mentioned  again  upon  the  occasion  of  his  marriage, 
though  his  wife  would  certainly  be  spoken  of  as 
Mrs.  John  Pat,  and  in  the  end,  if  he  died  at  Muirisc, 
the  surname  would  be  painted  in  white  letters  on 
the  black  wooden  cross  set  over  his  grave.  For  all 
the  rest  he  was  just  John  Pat. 

And  mediaeval  Muirisc,  too,  could  never  have 
dreamed  that  his  age  and  sex  might  be  thought  by 
outsiders  to  render  him  an  unsuitable  companion 
for  Miss  Kate  in  her  wanderings  over  the  countr}-- 
side.  In  their  eyes,  and  in  his  own,  he  was  a  mere 
boy,  whose  mission  was  to  run  errands,  carry  bun- 
dles or  do  whatever  else  the  people  of  the  castle 
bade  him  do  ;  in  return  for  which  they,  in  one  way 
or  another,  looked  to  it  that  he  continued  to  live, 


2i8  The  Re  hum  of  The  O  Mahony, 

and  even  on  occasion,  gave  him  an  odd  shilling  or 
two. 

"  Look,  now,  John  Pat,"  said  Kate,  halting  once 
more  to  look  back;  "  there's  Dunbeacon  and  Dun- 
manus  and  Muirisc  beyant,  and,  may  be  if  it  wasn't 
so  far,  we  could  see  the  Three  Castles,  too  ;  and 
whin  we're  at  the  top,  we  should  be  able  to  see 
Rosbrin  and  the  White  Castle  and  the  Black  Castle 
and  the  strand  over  which  Ballydesmond  stood, 
on  the  other  side,  as  well.  'Tis  my  belafe  no  other 
family  in  the  world  can  stand  and  look  down  on 
sevin  of  their  castles  at  one  view." 

John  Pat  looked  dutifully  along  the  coast-line  as 
her  gesture  commanded,  and  changed  his  basket 
into  the  other  hand,  but  offered  no  comment. 

"  And  there,  across  the  bay,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"  is  the  land  that's  marked  on  the  Four  Masters' 
map  for  the  O'Dalys.  Ye  were  there  many  times, 
John  Pat,  after  crabs  and  the  like.  Tell  me,  now, 
did  ever  you  or  anny  one  else  hear  of  a  castle  built 
there  be  the  O'Dalys  ?" 

"  Sorra  a  wan.  Miss  Katie." 

"There  you  have  it!  My  word,  the  impidinoe 
of  thim  O'Dalys — strolling  beggars,  and  hedge 
teachers,  and  singers  of  ballads  be  the  wayside  ! 
'Tis  in  the  books,  John  Pat,  that  wance  there 
was  a  king  of  Ireland  named  Hugh  Dubh — Hugh 
the  Black— and  these  bards  so  perplexed  and 
brothered  the  soul  out  of  him  wid  claims  for  money 
and  fine  clothes  and  the  best  places  at  the  table, 
and  kept  the  land  in  such  a  turmoil  by  rayson  of  the 
scurrilous  verses  they  wrote  about  thim  that  gnve 
thim  less  than  their  demands — that  Hugh,  glory  be 


Near  Ihe  Sitinmit  of  Ml.    Gabriel.       219 

to  him,  swore  not  a  man  of  'em  should  remain  in  all 
Ireland.  '  Out  ye  go,'  says  he.  But  thin  they 
raised  such  a  cr}-,  that  a  wake,  kindly  man — St. 
Columbkill  that  was  to  be — tuk  pity  on  'em,  and 
interceded  wid  the  king,  and  so,  worse  luck,  they 
kept  their  place.  Ah,  thin,  if  Hugh  Dugh  had  had 
his  way  wid  'em  't  would  be  a  diflferent  kind  of 
Ireland  we'd  see  this  day  !" 

"  Well,  this  Hugh  Dove,  as  3'ou  call  him  " — spoke 
up  a  clear,  fresh-toned  male  voice,  which  was  not 
John  Pat's — "  even  he  couldn't  have  wanted  a  pret- 
tier Ireland  than  this  is,  right  here  in  front  of 
us!" 

Kate,  in  vast  surprise,  turned  at  the  very  first 
sound  of  this  strange  voice.  A  young  man  had 
risen  to  his  feet  from  behind  the  furze  hedge,  close 
beside  her,  his  rosy-cheeked  face  wreathed  in  ami- 
able smiles.  She  recognized  the  wandering  O'Ma- 
hony  from  Houghton  County,  Michigan,  and 
softened  the  rigid  lines  into  which  her  face  had  been 
startled,  as  a  token  of  friendly  recognition. 

"  Good  morning,"  the  3'oung  man  added,  as  a  cere- 
monious afterthought.     "  Isn't  it  a  lovely  day  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  be  viewing  our  country  hereabouts 
wid  great  complateness,"  commented  Kate,  with  a 
half-smile,  not  wholly  free  from  irony.  There  reall}' 
was  no  reason  for  suspecting  the  accidental  char- 
acter of  the  encounter,  save  the  self-conscious  and 
confident  manner  in  which  the  young  man  had,  on 
the  instant,  attached  himself  to  her  expedition. 
Even  as  she  spoke,  he  was  walking  along  at  her 
side. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  cheerfully,  "  I'm  mixing 


220  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

up  business  ond  pleasure,  dou't  you  see,  all  the 
while  I'm  here — and  really  they  get  so  tangled  up 
together  every  once  in  a  while,  that  I  can't  tell 
which  is  which.  But  just  at  this  moment — there's 
no  doubt  about  it  whatev^er — pleasure  is  right  bang- 
up  on  top." 

"  It  is  a  fine,  grand  da}^"  said  Kate,  with  a  shade 
of  reserve.  The  frankly  florid  compliment  of  the 
Occident  was  novel  to  her. 

"  Yes,  simply  wonderful  weather,"  he  pursued. 
"  Only  April,  and  here's  the  skin  all  peeling  off  from 
my  nose." 

Kate  could  not  but  in  courtesy  look  at  this  afiiicted 
feature.  It  was  a  short  good-humored  nose,  with 
just  the  faintest  and  kindliest  suggestion  of  an  up- 
ward tilt  at  the  end.  One  should  not  be  too  serious 
with  the  owner  of  such  a  nose. 

"  You  have  business  here,  thin?"  she  asked.  "  I 
thought  you  were  looking  at  castles — and  shooting 
herons." 

He  gave  a  little  laugh,  and  held  up  his  hammer 
as  a  voucher. 

"  I'm  a  mining  engineer,"  he  explained  :  "  I've 
been  prospecting  for  a  company  all  around  Cappagh 
and  the  Mizzen  Head,  and  now  I'm  waiting:  to  hear 
from  London  what  the  assa3'S  are  like.  Oh,}es — 
that  reminds  me — I  ought  to  have  asked  before — 
how  is  the  old  man — the  chap  we  had  to  carry  to 
the  boat  ?     I  hope  his  ankle's  better." 

"  It  is,  thank  you,"  she  replied. 

He  chuckled  aloud  at  the  recollections  which  the 
subject  suggested. 

"He  soured  on  me,  right   from    the    start,  didn't 


Near  the  Snmmit  of  Mt.    Gabriel.       221 

he?"  the  young  man  went  on.  "  I've  laughed  a  hun- 
dred times  since,  at  the  way  he  chiseled  me  out  of 
my  place  in  the  boat — that  is  to  say,  some  of  the  time 
I've  laughed — but — but  then  lots  of  other  times  I 
couldn't  see  any  fun  in  it  at  all.  Do  3-ou  know,"  he 
continued,  almost  dolefull}',  "  I've  'oeen  hunting  all 
over  the  place  for  you." 

"  I've  nothing  to  do  wid  the  minerals  on  our 
lands,"  Kate  answered.  "  'T  is  a  thrushtee  attinds 
to  all  that." 

"Pshaw!     I  didn't  want   to  talk  minerals  to  _j'^?^" 

"  And  what  thin  ?" 

"  Well — since  you  put  it  so  straight — why — why, 
of  course — I  wanted  to  ask  you  more  about  our  peo- 
ple, about  the  O'Mahonys.  You  seemed  to  be 
pretty  well  up  on  the  thing.  You  see,  my  father 
died  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  so  that  I  was  too 
young  to  talk  to  him  much  about  where  he  came 
from,  and  all  that.  And  my  mother,  her  people 
were  from  a  different  part  of  Ireland,  and  so,  you 
see — " 

"  Ah,  there's  not  much  to  tell  now,"  said  Kate,  in 
a  saddened  tone.  "  They  were  a  great  family  once, 
and  now  are  nothing  at  all,  wid  poor  me  as  the  last 
of  the  lot." 

"  I  don't  call  that  '  nothing  at  all,'  by  a  jugful," 
protested  Bernard,  with  conviction. 

Kate  permitted  herself  a  brief  cousinly  smile. 

"  All  the  same,  they  end  with  me,  and  afther  me 
comes  in  the  O'Dalys." 

Lines  of  thought  raised  themselves  on  the  young 
man's  forehead  and  ran  down  to  the  sunburnt  nose. 

"  How    do    you    mean  .^"    he    asked,    dubiously. 


22  2  The  Return  of  TJte  O Mahony. 

"  Are  you — don't  mind  my  asking — are  you  going  to 
marry  one  of  that  name?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  to  express  repug- 
nance at  the  very  thought. 

"  I'll  marry  no  one  ;  laste  of  all  an  O'Daly,"  she 
said,  firmly.  Then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
decided  upon  a  further  explanation.  "  I'm  goin'  to 
take  me  vows  at  the  convint  within  the  month,"  she 
added. 

Bernard  stared  open-eyed  at  her. 

'*  I-gad  !"  was  all  he  said. 

The  girl's  face  lightened  at  the  sound  of  this 
exclamation,  bringing  back  as  it  did  a  flood  of 
welcome  memories. 

"  I  know  3'ou  by  that  word  for  a  true  O'Mahony, 
— 'an  American  O'Mahoney,"  she  said,  with  eager 
pleasure  beaming  in  her  deep-gray  eyes.  She  turn- 
ed to  her  retainer:  "  You  remimberthat  same  word, 
John  Pat.  Wlio  was  it  used  always  to  be  saying 
•  1-gad  ?  '  " 

John  Pat  searched  the  landscape  with  a  vacuous 
glance. 

"  Wu'd   it  be  Father  Harrington?"  he  asked. 

'"  Huh  !"  sniffed  Kate,  in  light  contempt,  and  turn- 
ed again  to  the  young  engineer,  with  a  backward 
nod  toward  John  Pat.  "  He's  an  honest  lad."  she 
said,  apologetically,  "  but  the  Lord  only  knows 
what's  inside  of  his  head.  Ah,  sir,  there  2i>as  an 
O'Mahony  here — 'tis  twelve  years  now  since  he 
sailed  away  ;  ah,  the  longest  day  Muirisc  stands  she 
'11  not  see  such  another  man — bold  and  fine,  wid  a 
heart  in  him  like  a  lion,  and  yit  soft  and  tinder  to 
thim  he  liked,  and  a  janius  for  war  and  commence 


Near  ihc  S2immit  of  Mt.    Gabriel.       223 

and  government  that  made  Muirisc  blossom  like  a 
rose.     Ah,  a  grand  man  was  our  O'Mahony  !" 

"So  you  live  at  Muirisc,  eh?"  asked  the  practical 
Bernard. 

"  'T  was  him  used  always  to  say  '  I-gad  !'  whin 
things  took  him  by  surprise,"  remarked  Kate,  turn- 
ing to  study  the  vast  downward  view  attentively. 

*'  Well  I  said  it  because  /  was  taken  by  surprise," 
said  the  young  man.  "What  else  could  a  fellow 
say,  with  such  a  piece  of  news  as  that  dumped 
down  on  him  ?  But  say,  you  don't  mean  it,  do  you 
— ^jw^  &oi"g  to  be  a  nun  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  through  luminous  eyes,  and 
nodded  a  grave  affirmative. 

Bernard  walked  for  a  little  way  in  silence,  mood- 
ily eying  the  hammer  in  his  hand.  Once  or  twice 
he  looked  up  at  his  companion  as  if  to  speak,  then 
cast  down  his  eyes  again.  At  last,  after  he  had 
helped  her  to  cross  a  low,  marshy  stretch  at  the 
base  of  a  ridge  of  gray  rock,  and  to  climb  to  the 
top  of  the  boulder — for  they  had  left  the  road  now 
and  were  making  their  way  obliquelj'  up  the  barren 
crest — he  found  words  to  utter. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  coming  along  with  you," 
he  asked,  "  under  the  circumstances?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  prevint  you,  especially 
wid  you  armed  wid  a  hammer,"  she  said,  in  gentle 
banter. 

"And  1  can  ask  you  a  plain  question  without 
offending  you  ?"  he  went  on  ;  and  then,  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  put  his  question:  "  It's  just 
this — I've  only  seen  you  twice,  it's  true,  but  I  feel 
as  if  I'd  known  you  for  years,  and,  besides,  we're 


2  24         '^^^^  Retur7i  of  The  G MaJiony. 

kind  of  relations — are  you  going  to  do  this  of  your 
own  free  will  ?" 

Kate,  for  answer,  lifted  her  hand  and  pointed 
westward  toward  the  pale-blue  band  along  the 
distant  coast-line. 

"  That  castle  you  see  yonder  at  the  bridge — "  she 
said,  "  't  was  there  that  Finghin,  son  of  Diarmid 
Mor  O'Mahony,  bate  the  MacCarthys  wid  great 
slaughter,  in  Anno  Domini  13 19." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

ON  THE   MOUNTAIN-TOP— AND   AFTER. 

The  two  3^oung  people,  with  John  Pat  and  the 
basket  close  behind,  stood  at  last  upon  the  very 
summit  of  Gabriel — a  wild  and  desolate  jumble  of 
naked  rocks  piled  helter-skelter  about  them,  and  at 
their  feet  a  strange,  little,  circular  lake,  which  in  all 
the  ag^es  had  mirrored  no  tree  or  flowering-  rush  or 
green  thing  whatsoever,  but  knew  onl)'  of  the  clouds 
and  of  the  lightning's  play  and  of  the  gathering  of 
the  storm-demons  for  descent  upon  the  homes  of 
men. 

A  solemn  place  is  a  mountain-top.  The  thin, 
spiritualized  air  is  all  alive  with  mysteries,  which, 
down  below  in  the  sordid  atmosphere,  visit  onlv  the 
brains  of  men  whom  we  lock  up  as  mad.  Th.e  dsy- 
ing-up  of  the  great  globe-floods  ;  the  slow  birtli  of 
vegetation  ;  the  rank  growth  of  uncouth  monsters  ; 
the  coming  of  the  fleet-footed,  bare-skinned  savage 
beast  called  man  ;  the  primeval  aeons  of  warfare 
wherein  knowledge  of  fire,  of  metals,  of  tanned 
hides  and  habitations  was  laboriously  developed 
and  the  huger  reptiles  were  destroyed  ;  the  dau-n  of 
history  through  the  clouds  of  sun  and  serpent  wor- 


226  The  Ret2irn  of  The  O" Mahony. 

ship  ;  the  weary  ages  of  brutish  raids  and  massacres, 
of  barbaric  creeds  and  cruel  lusts — all  this  the 
mountain-tops  have  stood  still  and  watched,  and,  so 
far  as  in  them  lay,  understood. 

Some  have  comprehended  more  of  what  tiiey  saw 
than  others.  The  tallest  man  is  not  necessaril}'  the 
wisest.  So  there  are  very  loft}'  mountains  which 
remain  stupid,  despite  their  advantages,  and  there 
are  relatively  small  mountains  which  have  come  to 
be  almost  human  in  their  understanding  of  and  sym- 
pathy with  the  world-long  drama  they  have  watched 
unfolding  itself.  The  Brocken,  for  example,  is 
scarcel}'  nipple-high  to  many  another  of  its  German 
brethren,  yet  which  of  the  rest  has  such  rich  n^em- 
ories,  stretching  back  through  countless  ccnlnries 
of  Teuton,  Slav,  Alemanni,  Suevi,  Frank  and  Celt 
to  the  days  when  nomad  strove  with  troglodyte,  and 
the  great  cave-bear  grappled  with  the  mammoth  in 
the  silent  fastnesses  of  the  Harz. 

In  Desmond,  the  broad-based,  conical  Gabriel  has 
as  unique  a  character  of  another  kind.  There  is 
nothing  of  the  frank  and  homely  German  familiarity 
in  the  reputation  it  enjoys  at  home.  To  be  sure, 
the  mountain  is  scarred  to  the  throat  by  bogcutters  ; 
cabins  and  the  ruins  of  cabins  lurk  hidden  in  clefts 
of  i-ocks  more  than  half-way  up  its  gra}-,  furze-clad 
sides  ;  yet  it  produces  the  effect  of  standing  sternl}^ 
aloof  from  human  things.  The  peasants  think  of  it 
as  a  sacied  eminence.  It  has  its  very  name  from 
the  legend  of  tiie  archangel,  who  flying  across 
Europe  in  disgust  at  man's  iniquities,  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  descend  for  a  moment  to 


On  the   Mouiitain-top — a7id  after.        227 

touch  with  his  foot  this  beautiful  mountain  gem  in 
the  crown  of  Carber3% 

Kate  explained  this  legend  to  her  young  com- 
panion from  Houghton  County,  and  showed  him 
the  marks  of  the  celestial  visitor's  foot  plainlj' 
visible  in  the  rock.  He  bestowed  such  critical,  not 
to  say  professional,  scrutiny  upon  these  marks  that 
she  made  haste  to  take  up  another  branch  of  the 
ancient  fable. 

"  And  this  little  round  lake  here,"  she  went  on, 
"  they'll  all  tell  you  't  was  made  by  bodily  lifting 
out  a  great  cylinder  of  rock  and  carting  it  miles 
through  the  air  and  putting  it  down  in  the  sea  out 
there,  where  it's  ever  since  been  known  as  Fasnet 
Rock.  Thev  say  the  measurements  are  precisely 
the  same.  I  forget  now  if  't  was  the  Archangel 
Gabriel  did  that,  too,  or  the  divil." 

"  The  result  comes  to  about  the  same  thing,"  com- 
mented the  engineer.  "  Whoever  did  it,"  he  went 
on,  scanning  the  regularly  rounded  sides  of  the 
pool,  "  made  a  good  workmanlike  job  of  it." 

"  No  one's  ever  been  able  to  touch  the  bottom  of 
it,"  said  Kate,  with  pride. 

"  Oh,  come,  now — I've  heard  that  of  ever)^  second 
lake  in  Ireland." 

"  Well — certainly  Fve  not  tested  it,"  she  replied, 
frostil}^  "  but  't  is  well  known  that  if  you  sink  a 
bottle  in  this  lake  't  will  be  found  out  there  in  Dun- 
manus  Bay  fourteen  hundred  feet  below  us." 

"  Why,  the  very  first  principle  of  hydrostatics," 
began  Bernard,  with  controversial  eagerness.  Then 
he  stopped  short,  stroked  his  smooth  chin,  and 
changed  the  subject  abruptly.     "  Speaking  of  bot- 


2  28  TJie  Return  of  The   G MaJiony. 

ties,"  he  said,  "  I  see  your  nian  there  is  eying  that 
lunch  basket  with  the  expression  of  a  meat-axe. 
Wouldn't  it  be  a  clever  idea  to  let  him  unpack  it?" 

The  while  John  Pat  stripped  the  basket  of  its  con- 
tents, and  spread  tliem  upon  a  cloth  in  the  mossy 
shadow  of  an  overhanging  boulder,  the  two  b}'  a 
common  impulse  strolled  over  to  the  eastern  edge 
of  the  summit. 

"  Be3'ond  Roaring  Water  Bay  the  O'Driscoll 
Castles  begin,"  said  Kate.  "  They  tell  me  they're 
poor  trifles  compared  wid  ours." 

*'  I  like  to  hear  you  say  *  ours,'  "  the  3'oung  man 
broke  in.  "  I  want  you  to  keep  right  on  rememi^er- 
ing  all  the  wdiile  that  I  belong  to  the  family'.  And  — 
and  I  wish  to  heaven  there  w^as  something  I  could 
do  to  show  how  tickled  to  death  I  am  that  I  do  be- 
long to  it  !" 

"  I  have  never  been  here  before,"  Kate  said,  in  a 
musing  tone,  which  carried  in  it  a  gentle  apology 
for  abstraction.  "  I  did  not  know  there  was  any- 
thing so  big  and  splendid  in  the  world." 

The  spell  of  this  mighty  spectacle  at  once  en- 
chanted and  oppressed  her.  She  stood  gazing  down 
upon  it  for  some  minutes,  holding  up  her  hand  as  a 
plea  for  silence  wdien  her  companion  would  have 
spoken.  Then,  with  a  lingering  sigli,  she  turncti 
away  and  led  the  slow  walk  back  toward  the  lake. 

"'Twas  like  dreaming,"  she  said  with  gravity; 
"and  a  strange  thought  came  to  me:  'Twas  that 
this  lovely  Ireland  1  looked  down  upon  was  beau- 
tiful with  the  beaut}' of  death  ;  that  'twas  the  corp?e 
of  me  country  1  was  taking  a  last  view  of.     Don't 


On  the  Moitntain-top — and  after.        229 

laugh  at  me  !  I  had  just  that  feeling.  Ah,  poor, 
poor  Irckind  !" 

Bernard  saw  tears  glistening  upon  her  long, 
black  lashes,  and  scarcely  knew  his  own  voice  when 
he  heard  it,  in  such  depths  of  melancholy  was  it 
pitched. 

•'  Better  times  are  coming  now,"  he  said.  "  If  we 
open  up  the  mines  we  are  counting  on  it  ought  to 
give  work  to  at  least  two  hundred  men." 

She  turned  sharpl}'  upon  him. 

"  Don't  talk  like  that!"  she  said,  in  half  command, 
half  entreaty.  "  'T  is  not  trade  or  work  or  mines  that 
keeps  a  nation  alive  when  'tis  fit  to  die.  One  can 
have  them  all,  and  riches  untold,  and  still  sink  wid  a 
broken  heart.  'T  is  nearly  three  hundred  years 
since  the  first  of  the  exiled  O'Mahonys  sailed  away 
yonder — from  Skull  and  Crookhaven  they  wint — to 
iight  and  die  in  Spain.  Thin  others  wint — Conagher 
and  Domnal  and  the  rest — to  fight  and  die  in 
France  ;  and  so  for  centuries  the  stream  of  life  has 
fiowed  away  from  Ireland  wid  every  other  family 
the  same  as  wid  ours.  What  nation  under  the  sun 
could  stand  the  drain?  'T  is  twelve  years  now 
since  the  best  and  finest  of  them  all  sailed  away  to 
fight  in  France,  and  to — to  die — oh,  win-a  ! — who 
knows  where?  So" — her  great  eyes  flashed 
proudly  through  their  tears — "  don't  talk  of  mines 
to  me  !     'T  is  too  much  like  the  English  !" 

Bernard  somehow  felt  himself  grown  much  taller 
and  older  as  he  listened  to  this  outburst  of  passion- 
ate lamentation,  with  its  whiplash  end  of  defiance, 
and  realized  that  this  beautiful  girl  was  confiding  it 


230  The  Return  of  The  G MaJiony. 

all  to  him.  He  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and  laid 
a  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 

"Come,  come,"  he  pleaded,  with  a  soothing 
drawl,  "don't  give  away  like  that!  We'll  take  a 
bite  of  something  to  eat,  and  get  down  again  where 
the  grass  grows.  Why,  you've  no  idea — the  bottom 
of  a  coal-mine  is  sociable  and  lively  compared  with 
this.  I'd  get  the  blues  myself  up  here,  in  another 
half-hour !" 

A  few  steps  were  taken  in  silence,  and  then  the 
young  man  spoke  again,  with  settled  determination 
in  his  voice. 

"  You  can  say  what  you  like,"  he  ground  out 
between  his  teeth,  "  or,  rather,  you  needn't  say  any 
more  than  you  like ;  but  I've  got  my  own  idea 
about  this  convent  business,  and  I  don't  like  it,  and 
I  don't  for  a  minute  believe  that  you  like  it.  IMind, 
I'm  not  asking  you  to  tell  me  whether  you  do  or 
not — only  I  want  you  to  say  just  this  :  Count  on  me 
as  your  friend — call  it  cousin,  too,  if  you  like ;  keep 
me  in  mind  as  a  fellow  who'll  go  to  the  whole 
length  of  the  rope  to  help  you,  and  break  the  rope 
like  a  piece  of  paper  twine  if  it's  necessary  to  go 
further.     That's  all." 

It  is  the  propert}-  of  these  weird  mountain-tops  to 
make  realities  out  of  the  most  unlikely  things.  On 
a  lower  terrestrial  level  Kate's  mind  might  have 
seen  nothing  but  fantastic  absurdity  in  this  proffer 
of  confidential  friendship  and  succor,  from  a  youth 
whom  she  met  twice.  Here  in  the  finer  Jind  more 
eager  air,  lifted  up  to  be  the  companion  of  clouds, 
the  girl  looked  with  grave  frankness  into  his  eyes 
and  gave  him  her  hand  in  token  of  the  bond. 


On  the  Mountain-top — and  after.       231 

Without  further  words,  they  rejoined  John  Pat, 
and  sat  down  to  lunch. 

Indeed,  there  were  few  further  words  during  the 
afternoon  which  John  Pat  was  not  privileged  to 
hear.  He  sat  with  them  during  the  meal,  in  the 
true  democratic  spirit  of  the  sept  relation,  and  he 
kept  close  behind  them  on  their  rambling,  leisure)}' 
descent  of  the  mountain-side.  From  the  tenor  of 
their  talk  he  gathered  vaguely  that  the  strange 
young  man  was  some  sort  of  relation  from  America, 
and  as  relations  from  America  present,  perhaps,  the 
one  idea  most  universally  familiar  to  the  Irish  peas- 
ant's mind,  his  curiosity  was  not  aroused.  Their 
conversation,  for  the  most  part,  was  about  that 
remarkable  0"Mahony  who  had  gone  away  years 
ago  and  whom  John  Pat  only  dimly  remembered. 

A  couple  of  miles  from  Muirisc,  the  homeward- 
bound  trio — for  Bernard  had  tacitly  made  himself  a 
party  to  the  entire  expedition  and  felt  as  if  he,  too, 
were  going  home — encountered,  in  the  late  after- 
noon, two  men  sitting  by  the  roadside  ditch. 

"  Oh,  there  's  Jerry,"  said  Kate  to  her  companion 
— "  Mr.  Higgins,  I  mane — wan  of  my  trustees.  1  '11 
inthroduce  you  to  him." 

Jerry's  demeanor,  as  the  group  approached  him, 
bore  momentary  traces  of  embarrassment.  lie 
looked  at  the  man  beside  him,  and  then  cast  a  back- 
ward glance  at  the  ditch,  as  if  wishing  that  they 
were  both  safely  hidden  behind  its  mask  of  stone 
wall  and  furze.  But  this  was  clearly  impossible  ; 
and  the  two  stood  up  at  an  obvious  suggestion  from 


232  The  Retia'u  of  The   O MaJiony, 


Jerry  and  put  as  good  a  face  upon  their  presence  as 
possible. 

"  This  is  a  relation  of  nioine  from  Amerilcy,  too," 
said  Jerry,  after  some  words  had  passed,  indicatin<; 
the  tall,  thin,  shambling,  spectacled  figure  beside 
him,  "  Mr.  Joseph  Higgins,  of — of — of — " 

"  Of  Boston,"  said  the  other,  after  an  awkward 
pause. 

He  seemed  ill  at  ease  in  his  badly  fitting  clothes 
and  looked  furtively  from  one  to  another  of  the 
faces  before  him. 

"  An' what  d'  ye  think,  Miss  Katie?"  hurriedly 
continued  Jerry.  "  Egor  I  Be  all  the  miracles  of 
Moses,  he's  possessed  of  more  learnin'  about  the 
O'Mahonys  than  anny  other  man  alive.  Cormac 
O'Daly  'd  be  a  fool  to  him.  An',  egor,  he  used  to 
know  our  O'Mahony  whin  he  was  in  Ameriky, 
before  ever  he  came  over  to  us!" 

"  Ye  're  wrong,  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Higgins, 
with  cautious  hesitation,  "  I  didn't  say  I  knew  him. 
I  said  1  knew  of  him.  I  was  employed  to  search  for 
him,  whin  he  was  heir  to  the  estate,  unbeknownst  to 
himself,  an'  I  wint  to  the  town  where  he'd  kept  a 
cobbler's  shop — Tecumsy  was  the  name  of  it — an' 
1  made  inquiries  for  Hugh  O'Mahony,  but — " 

"  What's  that  you  say  !  Hugh  O'Mahony — a 
shoemaker  in  Tecumseh,  New  York  ?"  broke  in 
young  Bernard,  with  sharp,  almost  excited  em- 
phasis. 

"  'T  is  what  I  said,"  responded  the  other,  his  pale 
face  flushing  nervously,  "  only — only  he'd  gone  to 
the  war." 

"  An'  that  was  our  O'Mahony,"  explained  Jerry. 


Oil  the   j\Founfaiii-top — and  after.        233 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  he  learned  of  the  search  made 
for  him,  an'  he  came  to  us  afther  the  war." 

Bernard  was  not  sure  that  he  had  got  the  twitch- 
ing muscles  of  his  face  under  control,  but  at  least  he 
could  manage  his  tongue. 

"  Oh,  he  came  over  here,  did  he?"  he  said,  with  a 
fair  alTectation  of  polite  interest. 

"  You  spoke  as  if  you  knew  him,"  put  in  Kate, 
eagerly. 

**  My  father  knew  him  as  well — as  well  as  he  knew 
himself,"  answered  Bernard,  wnth  evasion,  and  then 
bit  his  lip  in  fear  that  he  had  said  too  much. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE   INTELLIGENT   YOUNG    MAN. 

Within  the  next  few  days  the  people  of  Muirisc 
found  themselves  becominu^  familiar  with  the  spec- 
tacle of  two  strange  figures  walking  about  among 
their  narrow,  twisted  streets  or  across  the  open 
space  of  common  between  the  castle  and  the  qua}'. 
The  sight  of  new-comers  was  still  unusual  enough 
in  Muirisc  to  disturb  the  minds  of  the  inhabitants — 
but  since  the  mines  had  been  opened  in  the  district 
the  old-time  seclusion  had  never  quite  come  back, 
and  it  was  uneasily  felt  that  in  the  lapse  of  years 
even  a  hotel  might  come  to  be  necessary. 

One  of  these  strangers,  a  ricket3%  spindling,  weird- 
eyed  man  in  spectacles,  was  known  to  be  a  cousin 
of  Jerry  Higgins,  from  America.  The  story  went 
\hat  he  was  a  great  scholar,  peculiarly  learned  in 
ancient  Irish  matters.  Muirisc  took  this  for  granted 
all  the  more  readily  because  he  seemed  not  to  know 
anything  else — and  watched  his  shambling  progress 
through  the  village  streets  by  Jerr3?'s  side  with 
something  of  the  affectionate  pity  which  the  Irish 
peasant  finds  always  in  his  heart  for  the  being  he 
describes  as  a  "  nathural." 
I234] 


The  T^itelligent   Young  Man.  235 

The  other  tiew-comer  answered  vastly  better  to 
Muirisc's  conceptions  of  what  a  man  from  America 
should  be  like.  He  was  young,  fresh-faced  and 
elastic  of  step — with  square  shoulders,  a  lithe,  vig- 
orous frame  and  eyes  wh.ich  looked  with  frank  and 
cheerful  shrewdness  at  all  men  and  things.  He 
outdid  even  the  most  communicative  of  Muirisc's 
old  white-capped  women  in  polite  salutations  to 
passers-by  on  the  highway,  and  he  was  amiably 
untiring  in  his  efforts  to  lure  with  pennies  into 
friendly  converse  the  wild  little  girls  of  Muirisc, 
who  watched  him  with  twinkling,  squirrels'  eyes 
from  under  their  shawls,  and  whisked  off  like  so 
many  coveys  of  partridges,  at  his  near  approach  ; 
the  little  boj'S,  with  the  stronger  sense  of  their  sex, 
invariably  took  his  pennies,  but  no  more  than  their 
sisters  could  the)'-  be  induced  to  talk. 

There  was  a  delightful  absence  of  reserve  in  this 
young  man  from  America.  Muirisc  seemed  to  know 
ever3^thing  about  him  all  at  once.  His  name  was 
O'Mahony,  and  his  father  had  been  a  County-Cork 
man  ;  he  was  a  mining  engineer,  and  had  been 
brought  over  to  Europe  by  a  mining  compan}-  as  an 
expert  in  copper-ores  and  the  refining  of  barytes  ; 
he  was  living  at  Goleen,  but  liked  ISIuirisc  much 
better,  both  from  a  miner,  a  logical  point  of  view 
and  socially;  he  was  reckless  in  the  expenditure  of 
money  on  the  cars  from  Goleen  and  back  and  on 
the  hire  of  boatmen  at  Muirisc;  he  was  filled  to  the 
top  and  running  over  with  funny  stories,  he  was  a 
good  Catholic,  he  took  the  acutest  interest  in  all  the 
personal  narratives  of  the  older  inhabitants,  and  was 


236         The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

free  with  his  tobacco ;  trul}-  a  most  admirable 
young  man  ! 

He  had  been  about  JNIuirisc  and  the  immediate 
vicinity  for  a  week  or  so— breaking  up  an  occa- 
sional rock  with  his  hammer  when  he  was  sure  peo- 
ple were  watching  him,  but  more  often  lounging 
about  in  gossip  on  the  main  street,  or  fishing  in  the 
harbor  with  a  boatman  who  would  talk— when  he 
made  in  a  casual  way  the  acquaintance  of  O'Daly. 

The  little  old  man,  white-haired  now,  but  with 
the  blue-black  shadows  of  clean  shaving  still  stain- 
ing high  up  his  jaws  and  sunken  cheeks,  had  come 
down  the  street,  nodding  briefly  to  such  villagers 
as  saluted  him,  and  carrying  his  hands  clasped  at  the 
buttons  on  the  back  of  his  long-tailed  coat.  He 
had  heard  rumors  of  this  young  miner  from 
America,  and  paused  now  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
group  in  front  of  the  cobbler's  shop^  whom  Bernard 
was  entertaining  with  tales  of  giant  salmon  in  the 
waters  of  Lake  Superior. 

"Oh,  this  is  Mr.  O'Daly,  I  believe,"  the  young 
man  had  on  the  instant  interrupted  his  narrative  to 
remark.  "  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  sir.  I'd  been 
thinking  of  calling  on  you  every  da}-,  but  I  know 
you're  a  busy  man,  and  it's  only  since  yesterday 
that  I've  felt  that  I  had  real  business  with  you.  My 
name's  O'Mahony,  and  I'm  here  for  the  South  Des- 
mond Bary'tcs  Syndicate.  Probably  you  know  the 
name." 

The  O'Daly  found  his  wrinkled  old  paw  being 
shaken  warmly  in  the  grasp  of  this  affable  young 
man  before  he  had  had  time  to  be  astonished. 


The  Intelligent   Yotmg  Man. 


"  O'Daly's  my  name,"  he  said,  hesitatiiigl}-, 
"And  you  have  business  with  me,  3^ou  said?" 

"  I  guess  you'll  think  S(j !"  responded  the  other. 
"  I've  just  got  word  from  my  superiors  in  London 
to  go  ahead,  and  naturally  you're  the  first  man  I 
want  to  talk  with."     And  then  they  linked  arms. 

"  Well,"  said  the  cobbler,  as  they  watched  the 
receding  figures  of  the  pair,  "  my  word,  there's  more 
ways  of  killin*  a  dog  than  chokin'  him  wid  butter  !" 

An  hour  later,  Bernard  sat  comfortably  ensconced 
in  the  easiest  chair  afforded  by  the  living-room  of 
the  castle,  with  the  infant  O'Daly  on  his  knee  and  a 
trio  of  grown-up  people  listening  in  iinalfecttd 
pleasure  to  his  sprighth"  talk.  He  had  at  the  outset 
mistaken  Mrs.  O'Daly  for  a  married  sister  of  Kate's 
— an  error  which  he  managed  on  th.e  instant  to 
emphasize  b}'  a  gravely  deliberate  wink  at  Kate — 
and  now  held  the  mother's  heart  completely  b}'  his 
genial  attentions  to  the  babe.  He  'ind  set  n'd 
O'Daly  all  aglow  with  eager  interest  b}'  his  eulog)- 
of  Muirisc's  mineral  wealth  as  against  all  other  dis- 
tricts in  West  Carber}'.  And  all  the  time,  thr(^ugh 
anecdote,  business  converse,  exchange  of  theoiies 
on  the  rearing  and  precocity  of  infants  and  bright- 
llovv'ing  chatter  on  every  subject  uridcr  the  sun.  lie 
had  contrived  to  make  Kate  steadil}'  conscious  that 
she  was  the  true  object  of  his  visit.  Now  and  again 
ihe  consciousness  grew  so  vivid  that  she  felt  herself 
blushing  over  ihe  embroidered  altar  cloth  at  which 
she  worked,  in  the  shadow  betvreen  the  windows. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Bernard,  dandling  the  infant 
tenderlv    ns    he    spoke     "I     don't    kn-M-     -vhat    I 


^3t>  TJic  Ret2ir7i  of  The   O Mahony 


■0' 


wouldn't  give  to  be  able,  when  I  go  back,  to  tell  my 
father  how  I'd  seen  the  O'Mahony  castles  liere,  and 
all  that,  right  on  the  family's  old  stamping-ground." 

"Yer  father  died,  ye  say,  maun}-  3-ears  ago?" 
remarked  O'Dal}'. 

"Sure,  '  mannj' '  's  not  the  word  for  it,"  put  in 
Mrs.  O'Dal}',  with  a  flattering  smile.  "  He  's  but  a 
lad  yet,  for  all  he's  seen  and  done." 

"  Nobody  could  grow  old  in  such  an  air  as  this," 
said  the  young  man,  briskly.  "  You,  yourself,  bear 
witness  to  that,  Mrs.  O'Dal}'.  Yes,  my  father  died 
when  1  was  a  youngster.  We  moved  out  West 
after  the  War — I  was  a  little  shaver  then — and  he 
didn't  live  long  after  that." 

"  And  would  he  be  in  the  moines,  too  ?"  asked 
Cormac. 

"  No  ;  in  the  leatlier  business,"  answered  Bernard, 
without  hesitation.  "  I'o  the  end  of  his  days,  he 
was  always  counting  on  coming  back  here  to  Ireland 
and  seeing  the  home  of  the  0'Mahon)'s  again.  To 
hear  him  talk,  you'd  have  thought  there  wasn't 
another  famil)'  in  Ireland  worth  mentioning." 

"  'T  was  always  that  wa}'  wid  thim  0'Mahon3's," 
said  O'Daly,  throwing  a  significant  glance  over  his 
wife  and  step-daughter.  "  1  can  spake  fi^ceiy  to 
you,  sir  ;  for  I'll  be  bound  3'e  favor  ycr  mother's 
side  and  3'e  were  not  brought  up  among  them  ;  but 
bechune  ourselves,  there's  a  dale  o'  nonsinse  talked 
about  thim  same  0'Mahon3's.  Did  3'ou  ever  hear 
3'er  father    mintion  an  O'Daly^" 

"  Well — no — I  can't  sa3'  I  did,"  answered  the 
3'oung  man,  bending  his  mind  to  comprehension  of 
v.'hat  the  old  man  mi^fht  be  drivins:  at. 


The  tntelligoit    Young  Man.  ^39 

"  There  ye  have  it  I"  said  Cormac,  bringing  his 
hand  down  witii  emphasis  on  the  table.  "Sir,  'tis  a 
iiard  thing  to  say,  but  the  ingralhitude  of  tliini 
O'Mahonys  just  passes  behite.  Sure,  't  was  we  that 
made  thim.  What  were  they  but  p)oyrutts  and 
robbers  of  tiie  earth,  wid  no  since  but  for  raids  an' 
incursions,  an'  burnin'  down  abbe3's  an'  lioly  houses, 
and  makin'  war  on  their  neighbors.  An'  sure,  't  was 
we  civilized  'cm,  we  O'Dalj-s,  that  they  trate  now 
as  not  fit  to  lace  up  their  shoes.  'T  was  we  taught 
thim  O'Mahonys  to  rade  an'  write,  an*  everything 
else  the}'  knew  in  learnin'  and  politeness.  An'  so 
far  as  that  last-mintioned  commodity  goes" — this 
with  a  still  more  meaning,  sidelong  glance  toward 
the  women — "  faith,  a  dale  of  our  labor  was  wasted 
intoirely." 

Even  if  Kate  would  have  taken  up  the  challenge, 
the  young  man  gave  her  no  time. 

•'  Oh,  of  course,"  he  broke  in,  "  I've  heard  of  the 
O'Dalys  all  mj-  life.  Everybody  knows  about 
tJicm  /" 

"  Liik  at  that  now  !"  exclaimed  Cormac,  in  high 
triumph.  "  Sure,  't  is  Ameriky  '11  set  all  of  us 
right,  an'  keep  the  old  learning  up.  Ye'll  have 
heard,  sir,  of  Cuchonnacht  O'Daly,  called  '  na 
Sgotle'  or  '  of  the  school  ' — " 

'*  What,  old  Cocoanut !"  cried  Bernard,  with 
vivacit}',  "  I  should  think  so  !" 

"  'T  was  he  was  our  founder,"  pursued  Cormac, 
excitedl3^  "  An'  after  him  came  eight-an'-twinty 
descindants,  all  the  chief  bards  of  Ireland.  An'  in 
comparatively  late  toimes  the}^  had  a  school  at 
Drumnea,  in    Kilcrohane,   where   the    sons    of  the 


240  TJie  Return  of  The  O AlaJioiiy. 

kings  of  Spain  came  for  their  complate  eddication, 
an'  the  princes  doid  there,  an'  are  buried  there  in 
our  family  vault — sure  the  ruins  of  the  college 
remain  to  this  day — " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  one  of  that  family, 
Mr.  O'Daly  ?"  asked  Bernard,  with  eagerness. 

"  'T  is  my  bclafe  I'm  the  head  of  it,"  responded 
Cormac,  with  lofty  simplicit}'.  "  I'm  an  old  man, 
sir,  an*  of  an  humble  nature,  an'  I'd  not  be  takin' 
honors  on  meself.  But  whin  that  bye  there — that 
bye  ye  how  Id  on  yer  knee — grows  up,  an'  he  the 
owner  of  Muirisc  an'  its  moines  an'  the  fishin*,  wid 
all  his  eddication  an'  foine  advantages — sure,  if  it 
pl'ases  him  to  asshume  the  dignity  of  TJie  O'Daly, 
an'  putt  the  grand  old  family  wance  more  where  it 
belongs,  I'm  thinkin'  me  bones  '11  rest  the  aiser  in 
their  grave." 

Bernard  looked  down  with  an  abstracted  air  at 
the  unpleasantly  narrow  skull  of  the  child  on  his 
knee,  with  its  big  ears  and  thin,  plastered  ringlets 
that  suggested  a  whimsical  baby-caricature  of  the 
mother's  crimps.  He  heard  Kale  rise  behind  him, 
walk  across  the  floor  and  leave  the  room  with  an 
emphatic  closing  of  the  door.  To  be  frank,  the 
impulse  burned  hotly  within  hii\i  to  cuff  the  infantile 
head  of  this  future  chief  ot  the  O'Dalys. 

"  I've  a  pome  on  the  subject,  which  I  composed 
last  Aister  Monday,"  O'Daly  went  on,  "  which  I'd 
be  deloightcd  to  rade  to  ye." 

"  Unfortunately  I  must  be  hurrying  along  now," 
said  Bernard,  rising  on  the  instant,  and  depositing 
the  child  on  the  floor.     "  I'm  sorrv,  sir,  but — " 

*'  Sure,  'tis  you  do  be  droivin'  everybody  from  the 


The  Inielh'gefit    Yoii7ig  Man.  241 

house  wid  yer  pomes,"  commented  Mrs.  O'Daly, 
ungenerously. 

'*  Oh,  no,  I  assure  you !"  protested  the  young 
man.  "  I've  often  heard  of  Mr.  O'Daly 's  verses,  and 
verj'  soon  now  I'm  coming  to  get  him  to  read  them 
all  to  me.  Have  you  got  some  about  Cocoanut, 
Mr.  O'Daly  ?" 

"  This  particular  one,"  said  Cormac,  doggedly, 
"  trates  of  a  much  later  period.  Indeed,  't  is  so  late 
that  it  hasn't  happened  at  all  yit.  'T  is  laid  in 
futurity,  sir,  an'  dales  wid  the  grand  career  me  son 
is  to  have  whin  he  takes  his  proud  position  as  TJie 
O'Daly,  the  proide  of  West  Carbery." 

"  Well,  now,  you've  got  to  read  me  that  the  very 
first  thing  when  I  come  next  time,"  said  Bernard. 
Then  he  added,  with  a  smile:  "  For,  you  know,  I 
want  you  to  let  me  come  again." 

*' Sir,  ye  can't  come  too  soon  or  stop  too  long," 
Mrs.  O'Daly  assured  him.  "  Sure,  what  wid  there 
bein'  no  railway  to  Muirisc  an'  no  gintry  near  by, 
an'  what  wid  the  dale  we  hear  about  the  O'Dalys 
an'  their  supayriority  over  the  O'Mahonys,  an'  thim 
pomes,  my  word,  we  do  be  starvin*  for  the  soight 
of  a  new  face  !" 

"  Then  I  can't  be  too  glad  that  my  face  is  new," 
promptly  put  in  Bernard,  wreathing  the  counten- 
ance in  question  with  beaming  amiability.  "  And  in 
a  few  days  I  shall  want  to  talk  business  with  Mr. 
O'Daly,  too,  about  the  mining  rights  we  shall  need 
to  take  up." 

"  Ye'll  be  welcome  always,"  said  O'Daly. 

And  with  that  comforting  pledge  in  his  ears,  the 


242  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

3'oung  man  shook  hands  with  the  couple  and  made 
his  way  out  of  the  room. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourselves  to  come  out,"  he 
begged.    "  I  feel  already  at  home  all  over  the  house." 

"  Now  that's  a  young  man  of  sinse,"  said  the 
O'Daly,  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  their  visitor. 
"  *T  is  not  manny  ye'll  foind  nowadays  wid  such 
intelligince  insoide  his  head." 

"  Nor  so  comely  a  face  on  the  outside  of  it,"  com- 
mented his  wife. 

At  the  end  of  the  hallway  this  intelligent  young 
man  was  not  surprised  to  encounter  Kate,  and  she 
made  no  pretense  of  not  having  waited  for  him. 
Yet,  as  he  approached,  she  moved  to  pass  by. 

"  'T  is  althered  opinions  3^ou  hold  about  the 
O'Mahonys  and  the  O'Dalys,"  she  said,  with  studied 
coldness  and  a  haughty  carriage  of  her  dark  head. 

He  caught  her  sleeve  as  she  would  have  passed 
him. 

"  See  here,"  he  whispered,  eagerly,  "  don't  you 
make  a  goose  of  yourself.  I  've  told  more  lies  and 
acted  more  lies  generally  this  afternoon  iov yon  than 
I  would  for  all  the  other  women  on  earth  boiled 
together.  Sh-h !  Just  you  keep  mum,  and  we'll 
see  you  through  this  thing  slick  and  clean." 

*'  I  want  no  lies  told  for  me,  or  acted  either," 
retorted  Kate. 

Her  tone  was  proud  enough  still,  but  the  lines  of 
her  face  were  relenting. 

"  No,  1  don't  suppose  for  a  minute  )'Ou  do,"  he 
murmured  back,  still  holding  her  sleeve,  and  with 
his  other  hand  on  the  latch.    •'  You're  too  near  an 


The  Intelligent   Vo7(n£~  Man.  243 

angel  for  that.  I  tell  you  what  :  Suppose  y(ni  just 
start  in  and  do  as  much  praying  as  you  can,  to  kind 
o'  balance  the  thing.  It'll  all  be  needed  ;.for  as  far 
as  1  can  see  now,  I've  got  some  regular  old  whop- 
pers to  come  3-et." 

Then  the  young  man  released  the  sleeve,  snatched 
up  the  hand  at  the  end  of  that  sleeve,  kissed  it,  and 
was  gone  before  Kate  could  sa}"  another  word. 

When  she  had  thought  it  all  over,  through  hours 
of  seclusion  in  iier  room,  she  was  still  very  much  at 
sea  as  to  what  that  word  would  have  been  had  time 
been  afforded  her  in  which  to  utter  it. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE      COUNCIL     OF     WAR. 

Having  left  the  castle,  Bernard  walked  briskly 
away  across  the  open  square,  past  the  qua}-  and 
alonjj  the  curlinc;  stretch  of  sands  which  led  to  the 
path  under  the  cliffs.  He  had  taken  the  hammer 
from  his  pocket  and  swung  it  as  he  strode  onward, 
whistling  as  he  went. 

A  mile  or  so  along  the  strand,  he  turned  off  at  a  foot- 
wa}^  leading  up  the  rocks,  and  climbed  this  nimbly 
to  the  top,  gaining  which,  he  began  to  scan  closel}^ 
the  broad  expanse  of  dun-colored  bog-plain  which 
dipped  gradually  toward  Mount  Gabriel.  His 
search  was  not  protracted.  He  had  made  out  the 
figures  he  sought,  and  straightway  set  out  over  the 
bog,  with  a  light,  springing  step,  still  timed  to  a 
whistled  marching  tune,  toward  them. 

"  Well,  I've  treed  the  coon  1"  was  his  remark 
when  he  had  joined  Jerry  and  Linsky.  "It  was 
worth  waiting  for  a  week  just  to  catch  him  like 
that,  with  his  guard  down.  Wait  a  minute,  then  1 
can  be  sure  of  wdiat  I'm  talking  about." 

The  others  had  not  invited  this  adjuration  by  any 
overt  display  of  impatience,  and  they  watched  the 


2441 


The   Council  of  JFar.  245 

voung  man  now  take  an  envelope  froni  his  pcjcket 
and  work  out  a  sum  on  its  back  with  a  pencil  in 
phicid  if  open-eyed  contentment.  They  both  studied 
him,  in  fact,  much  as  their  grandfathers  might  have 
gazed  at  the  learned  pig  at  a  fair — as  a  being  with 
resources  and  accomplishments  quite  beyond  the 
laborious  necessity  of  comprehension. 

He  finished  his  ciphering,  and  gave  them,  in  terse 
summary,  the  benefit  of  it. 

"  The  way  I  figure  the  thing,"  he  said,  with  his 
eye  on  the  envelope,  "  is  this  :  The  mines  were 
g-oing  all  right  when  your  man  went  awa}-,  twelve 
}-ears  ago.  The  output  then  was  worth,  sa}-,  eight 
thousand  pounds  sterling  a  year.  Since  then  it  has 
once  or  twice  gone  as  high  at  twenty  thousand 
pounds,  and  once  it's  been  down  to  eleven  thousand 
pounds.  From  all  I  can  gather  the  average  ought 
to  have  been,  sa)-,  fourteen  thousand  pounds.  The 
mining  tenants  hold  on  the  usual  thirty-one-year 
lease,  paying  fifty  pounds  a  year  to  begin  with,  and 
tiien  one-sixteenth  on  the  gross  sales.  There  is  a 
pi-ovision  of  a  maximum  surface-drainage  charge  of 
two  pounds  an  acre,  but  there's  nothing  in  that. 
On  my  average,  the  whole  royalties  would  be  nine 
hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  a  year.  Tliai,  in 
twelve  years,  vrouM  be  eleven  thousand  pounds.  I 
think,  m3'self,  that  it's  a  good  deal  more  ;  bnt  th.at'U 
do  as  a  starter.  And  you  say  O'Dalv's  beer,  send- 
ing the  boss  tv.^o  hundred  pounds  a  year?" 

"  At  laste  for  tin  years — not  for  the  last  two,"  said 
Jerry. 

"Very    well,   then;    you've   got  nine   thoiisand 


246  The  Return  of  TJie  GJMahony. 

pounds.     The  interest  on  that  for  two  years  alone 
would  make  up  all  he  sent  away." 

"  An'  't  is  your  idea  that  O'Daly  has  putt  by  all 
that  money  ?" 

"  And  half  as  much  more  ;  and  not  a  cent  of  it 
all  belongs  to  him." 

"  Thrue  fcjr  you  ;  't  is  Miss  Katie's  money," 
mourned  Jerry,  shaking  his  curly  red  head  and  dis- 
turbing his  fat  breast  with  a  prolonged  sigh.  "  But 
she'll  never  lay  finger  to  anny  of  it.  Oh,  Cormac, 
you're  the  divil  !" 

The  young  man  sniffed  impatiently. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  you  fellows,"  he  said,  sharply. 
"  You  take  fright  like  a  flock  of  sheep.  What  the 
deuce  are  you  afraid  of?  No  wonder  Ireland  isn't 
free,  with  men  who  have  got  to  sit  down  and  cry 
every  few  minutes !"  Then  the  spectacle  of  pained 
suiprise  on  Jerry's  fat  face  drove  away  his  mood  of 
criticism.  "  Or  no  ;  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  hastened 
to  add  ;  "  but  really,  there's  no  earthly  reason  why 
O'Daly  shouldn't  be  brought  to  book.  There's  law 
here  for  that  sort  of  thing  as  much  as  there  is  any- 
where else." 

"  'T  was  Miss  Katie's  own  words  that  I  'd  be  a  fool 
to  thry  to  putt  the  law  on  Cormac  O'Daly,  an'  him 
an  attorne}^"  explained  Jerry,  in  defiant  self-defense. 

"  Perhaps  that's  true  about  your  putting  the  law 
on  him,"  Bernard  permitted  himself  to  say.  "  But 
3^ou  're  a  trustee,  3-ou  tell  me,  as  much  as  he  is, 
and  others  can  act  for  3'ou  and  force  him  to  give 
his  accounts.  That  can  be  done  upon  your  trust- 
deed." 

"  Me  paper,  is  it?" 


The  Coitncil  of  War.  247 


"  Yes,  the  one  the  boss  ^ave  you." 

"  Egor !  O'Daly  has  it.  He  begged  me  for  it,  to 
keep  'em  together.  If  I'd  ask  him  for  it,  belike 
lie  'd  refuse  me.  You've  no  knowledge  of  tlie  char- 
aether  of  that  same  O'Daly." 

For  just  a  moment  the  young  man  turned  away, 
his  face  clouded  with  the  shadows  of  a  baffled  mind. 
Then  he  looked  Jerry  stiaight  in  the  eye. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  you  trust  me,  don't  you  ? 
You  believe  that  I  want  to  act  square  by  you  and 
help  you  in  this  thing?" 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Jerry,  simply. 

"  Well,  then,  I  tell  you  that  O'Daly  ca7i  be  made 
to  show  up,  and  the  whole  affaii"  can  be  set  straight, 
and  the  young  lady — ni}'  cousin — can  be  put  into 
her  own  again.  Only  I  can't  work  in  the  dark.  I 
can't  play  with  a  partner  that  '  finesses  '  against  me, 
as  a  whist-player  would  say.  Now,  who  is  this  man 
here  ?  1  know  he  isn't  your  cousin  any  more  than 
he  is  mine.      What's  his  game  ?" 

Linsky  took  the  words  out  of  his  puzzled  com- 
panion's mouth. 

"  'T  is  a  long  story,  sir,"  he  said,  "  an'  3^ou  'd  be  no 
wiser  if  you  were  told  it.  Some  time,  plase  God, 
you  '11  know  it  all.  Just  now  't  is  enough  that 
I'm  bound  to  this  man  and  lo  The  O'Mahony,  who's 
away,  an'  perhaps  dead  an'  buried,  an'  I'm  heart 
an'  sowl  for  doin'  whatever  I  can  to  help  the  3  oung 
lad3^  Onl3-,  if  3-ou  '11  not  moind  me  sa3-in'  so,  she's 
her  own  worst  inemy.  If  she  takes  the  bit  in  her 
mouth  this  wav,  an'  will  go  into  the  convint,  how, 
in  the  name  of  glor3',  are  we  to  stop  her  or  do  any- 
thing else  ?" 


248  The  Re i urn  of  The  O Mahojiy. 

"There  are  more  than  fifteen  hundred  ways  of 
working  that!'''  replied  the  young  man  from 
Houghton  Count}',  simulating  a  confidence  he  did 
not  Avholly  feel.  "  But  let's  get  along  down  toward 
the  village." 

They  entered  jNIuirisc  through  the  ancient  con- 
vent churchyard,  and  at  his  door-way  Jerry,  as  the 
visible  result  of  much  cogitation,  asked  the  twain 
in.  After  offering  them  glasses  of  whiskey  and 
water  and  lighting  a  pipe,  Jerr}^  suddenly  resolved 
upon  a  further  extension  of  confidence.  To  Lins- 
ky's  astonishment,  he  took  the  lantern  down  from 
the  wall,  lighted  it,  and  opened  the  door  at  the  back 
ot  the  bed. 

"  If  you'll  come  along  wid  us,  sir,"  he  said  to 
Bernard,  "  we'll  show  you  something." 

"  There,  here  we  can  talk  at  our  aise,"  he  remark- 
ed again,  when  finally  the  three  men  were  in  the 
subterranean  chamber,  with  the  door  closed  behind 
them.     "  Have  you  anything  like  tJiis  in  Amerik}-  ?" 

Bernard  was  not  so  greatly  impressed  as  they 
expected  him  to  be.  He  stolled  about  the  vault-like 
room,  sounding  the  walls  with  his  boot,  pulling 
aside  the  bed-curtains  and  investigating  the  drain. 

"  Curious  old  place,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  What's 
the  idea  ?" 

"  Sure,  't  is  a  sacret  place  intoirely,"  explained 
Jerry.  "  Besides  us  three,  there's  not  a  man  aloive 
who  knows  of  it,  exceptin'.  The  O'Mahon}',  if  be 
God's  grace  he  's  aloive.  'T  was  he  discovered  it. 
He'd  the  eyes  of  a  him-harrier  for  anny  mark  or 
sign  in  a  wall.  Well  do  I  remimber  our  coming 
here  first.     He  lukked  it  all  over,  as  you're  doing. 


The   Council  of  ]Vai\  _      249 

'  Egor!'  says  he,  '  It  ma}^  co;uc  in  haridy  for  O'Daly 
some  da}'.'  There  was  a  dead  man  there  on  the 
bed,  that  dry  ye  c'n'd  'a'  lois^^hted  him  wid  a  match." 

"  'T  is  a  part  of  the  convint,"  Linsky  took,  up  the 
explanation,  "an'  the  cb.est,  there,  was  fidl  of  deeds 
an'  riccords  of  the  convint  for  manin-  cinturics. 
'T  was  me  work  for  years  to  decipher  an'  thranslate 
thim,  unbeknownst  to  every  soul  in  Muirisc.  They 
were  all  in  Irish." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  queer  sort  of  hole,"  said  Bernard, 
musingly,  walking  over  to  the  table  and  holding  up 
one  of  the  ancient  manusci-ipts  to  the  lamplight  for 
investigation.  "  Wh}^,  this  isn't  Irish,  is  it?"  h,e 
asked,  after  a  moment's  scrutiny.     "This  is  Latin." 

"  'T  is  wan  of  half  a  dozen  3'e  see  there  on  the 
table  that  I  couldn't  make  out,"  said  Linsky.  "  I'm 
no  Latin  scholar  meself.  'T  was  me  intintion  to 
foind  some  one  outside  who  c'u'd  thranslate  thim." 

Bernard  had  kept  his  eves  on  the  faded  parch- 
ment. 

"  Odd  !"  he  said.  "  It's  from  a  bishop — JMatthew 
O'Finn  seems  to  be  the  name — " 

"  He  was  bishop  of  Ross  in  the  early  [)art  ()f  the 
fourteenth  cintury,"  put  in  Linsky. 

"  And  this  thing  is  a  warning  to  the  nuns  hci-e  to 
close  up  their  convent  and  take  in  no  moie  n.oxiccs, 
because  the  church  can't  recognize  them  or  their 
order.  It's  queer  old  Lalin,  but  that's  what  I  make 
it  out  to  be." 

"  'T  is  an  iilegant  scholar  ye  are,  sir  !"  exclaimed 
Jerry,  in  honest  admiration. 

"  No,"  said  Bernard  ;  "  only  they  started  me  in 
lor  a  priest,  and  I  got  to  know  Latin  as  well  as  I 


250  The  Return  of  The  O' JMahony. 

did  English,  or  almost.  But  ni}-  godliness  wasn't 
anywhere  near  high-water  mark,  and  so  I  got 
switched  (iff  into  engineering.  I  dare  sa}^  the 
change  was  a  good  thing  all  around.  If  it's  all  the 
same  to  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Linsky,  "  I'll 
put  this  parchment  in  my  pocket  for  the  time  being, 
I  want  to  look  it  over  again  more  carefully.  You 
shall  have  it  back." 

The  two  Irishmen  assented  as  a  matter  of  course. 
This  active-minded  and  capable  young  man,  who 
had  mining  figures  at  his  finger's  ends,  and  could 
read  Latin,  and  talked  lightly  of  fifteen  hundred 
ways  to  outwit  O'Daly,  was  obviously  one  to  be 
obeyed  without  questions.  They  sat  now  and 
watched  him  with  rapt  eyes  and  acquiescent  nods 
as  he,  seated  on  the  table  with  fo(^t  on  knee, 
recounted  to  them  the  more  salient  points  of  his 
interview  with  O'Daly. 

"  He  was  a  dacent  ould  man  when  1  knew  him 
first,"  mused  Jerr3%  in  comment,  "an'  as  full  of 
praises  for  the  O'Mahonys  as  an  ^g^  is  of  mate. 
'Tis  the  money  that  althered  him  ;  an'  thin  that  brat 
of  a  bye  of  his  !  'T  is  since  thin  that  he  beliavcd 
like  a  nagur.  An'  't  is  my  belafe,  sir,  that  only  for 
him  jMiss  Katie  'd  never  have  dr'amed  of  interin' 
that  thunderin'  old  convint.  The  very  last  toime  1 
was  wid  him,  error,  he  druv  us  both  from  the  house. 
'T  was  the  nuns  made  Miss  Katie  return  to  him 
next  day.  'T  is  just  that,  sir,  that  she  's  no  one  else 
bechune  thim  nuns  an'  O'Daly,  an'  they  do  be  tossin' 
her  from  wan  to  the  other  of  'em  like  a  blessid  ball." 

"  The  wonder  is  to  me  she  's  stood  it  for  a  minute," 
said  Bernard ;  "  a  proud  girl  like  her," 


TJic   Council  of  War.  251 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Jerry,  "it  isn't  like  in  Ainerilcy, 
where  every  wan's  free  to  do  what  pl'ases  liini. 
What  was  tiie  girl  to  do?  Where  was  slie  to  i?;()  if 
she  defied  thim  that  was  in  authorit)-  over  hei"? 
'T  is  aisy  to  talk,  asmanny'sthe  toime  she's  said  that 
same  to  me;  but  't  is  another  matther  to  do  !'' 

"There's  the  whole  trouble  iii  a  nutshell,"  said 
Bernard.  "  Everybody  talks  and  nobody  does  any- 
thing-." 

"There's  truth  in  that  sir,"  put  in  Linsky;  "but 
what  are  you  proposin'  to  do?  There  were  fifteen 
hundred  ways,  you  said.     What's  wan  of  'em  ?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  fifteen  hundred  and  two  now,"  re- 
sponded Bernard,  with  a  smile.  "You've  helped 
me  to  two  more  since  I've  been  down  here — or, 
rather,  this  missing  O'Mahony  of  3-ours  has  helped 
me  to  one,  and  I  helped  mvself  to  the  other." 

The  two  stared  in  helpless  bewilderment  at  the 
young  man. 

"  That  O'lNlahony  seems  to  have  been  a  right 
smart  chap,"  Bei'uard  continued.  "  No  wonder  he 
made  things  hum  here  in  Muirisc.  And  a  prophet 
too.  Why,  the  very  first  time  he  ever  laid  eyes  on 
this  cave  here,  by  your  own  telling,  he  saw  just 
what  it  was  going  to  be  good  for." 

"  I  don't  folly  yc,"  said  the  puzzled  Jerry. 

"  Why,  to  put  O'Daly  in,  of  course,"  answered  the 
young  man,  lightlj^  "That's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
your  face." 

"Egor!  'Tisagrand  idea, that  same!"  exclaimed 
Jerry,  slapping  his  thigh.  "  Only,"  he  added,  with 
^  sinking  enthusiasm,  "suppose  he  wouldn't  come?" 


252  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

Bernard  laughed  outright. 

"  That'!!  be  easy  enough.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  send  word  3'()u  want  to  see  him  in  your  place  up 
stairs;  wlien  he  comes,  tell  him  there's  a  strange 
discovery  you've  made.  Bring  him  down  here,  let 
liim  in,  and  udiile  he  's  looking  around  him  just  slip 
out  and  shut  the  door  on  him.  I  notice  it's  got  a 
spring-lock  from  the  outside.  A  thoughtful  man, 
that  O'Mahony!  Of  course,  you'll  want  to  bring 
down  enough  food  and  water  to  last  a  week  or  so, 
first;  perhaps  a  little  whiskey,  too.  x^nd  I'd  carry 
up  all  these  papers,  moreover,  and  put  'em  in  your 
roiMn  above.  Until  the  old  man  got  quieted  down, 
he  might  feel  disposed  to  tear  things." 

"  Egor  !  I  '11  do  it  !"  cried  Jerry,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  a  grin  on  his  broad  face.  **  Oh,  the  art  of 
man  !" 

The  pallid  and  near-sighted  Linsky  was  less  alive 
to  the  value  of  this  bold  plan. 

"  An'  what  '11  ye  do  nixt  ?"  he  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  1  've  got  a  scheme  which  1  'II  carrv  out  to-mor- 
row, by  myself,"  said  Bernard.  "  It  '11  take  me  all 
day  ;  and  by  the  time  I  turn  up  the  day  after,  you 
must  have  O'Daly  safely  bottled  up  down  here. 
Tlien  I  '11  be  in  a  position  to  read  the  riot  act  to 
every  bod  V.  First  we  '11  stand  the  convent  on  its 
liead,  and  then  I  '11  come  down  here  and  have  a  little 
confidential  talk  with  O'Daly  about  going  to  prison 
as  a  fraudulent  trustee." 

"  Sir,  you  're  u-ell-named  '  O'Mahony,'  "said  Jerry, 
with  beaming  earnestness.  "  1  do  be  almost  believin' 
ye  're  his  son  J" 


The   Council  of  War. 


25; 


Bernard  chuckled  as  he  sprang  off  the  table  to  his 
feet. 

"  There  might  be  even  stranger  things  than  that," 
he  said,  and  laughed  again. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE   VICTORY    OF   THE   "  CATHACH." 

One  day  passed,  and  then  another,  and  the  even- 
ing of  the  third  day  drew  near — 3'et  brought  no 
returning  Bernard.  It  is  true  that  on  the  second 
day  a  telegram — the  first  Jerry  had  ever  received  in 
his  life — came  bearing  the  date  of  Cashel,  and  con- 
taining only  the  unsigned  injunction  : 

"  Don't  be  afraid/' 

It  is  all  very  well  to  say  this,  but  Jerry  and  Linsky 
read  over  the  brief  message  many  scores  of  times 
that  day,  and  still  felt  themselves  very  much  afraid. 

Muirisc  was  stirred  by  unwonted  excitement.  In 
all  its  histor}',  the  village  had  never  resented  any- 
thing else  quite  so  much  as  the  establishment  of  a 
police  barrack  in  its  principal  street,  a  dozen  years 
before.  The  inhabitants  had  long  since  grown 
accustomed  to  the  sight  of  the  sergeant  and  his  four 
men  lounging  about  the  place,  and  had  even  admitted 
them  to  a  kind  of  conditional  friendship,  but,  none 
the  less,  their  presence  had  continued  to  present 
itself  as  an  affront  to  Muirisc.  From  one  year's  end 
to  another,  no  suspicion  of  crime  had  darkened  the 
peaceful  fame  of  the  hrimlct.  They  had  he^ird  Yi^S'M? 


The    Victory  of  the  "  Cathach.''         255 

stories  of  grim  and  violent  deeds  in  other  parts  of 
the  south  and  west,  as  the  failure  of  the  potatoes 
and  the  greed  of  the  landlords  conspired  together 
to  drive  the  peasantry  into  revolt,  but  in  Muirisc, 
though  she  had  had  her  evictions  and  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  hungry,  it  had  occurred  to  no  one  to  so 
much  as  break  a  window. 

Yet  now,  all  at  once,  here  were  fresh  constables 
brought  in  from  Bantry,  with  an  inspector  at  their 
head,  and  the  amazed  villagers  saw  these  new- 
comers, with  rifles  slung  over  their  short  capes,  and 
little  round  caps  cocked  to  one  side  on  their  close- 
cropped  heads,  ransacking  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  the  ancient  town  in  quest  of  some  mysterious 
thing,  the  while  others  spread  their  search  over  the 
ragged  rocks  and  moorland  roundabout.  And  then 
the  astounding  report  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth 
that  Father  Jago  had  read  in  a  Dublin  paper  that 
O'Daly  was  believed  to  have  been  murdered. 

Sure  enough,  now  that  they  had  thought  of  it, 
O'Daly  had  not  been  seen  for  two  or  three  days, 
but  until  this  strange  story  came  from  without,  no 
one  had  given  this  a  thought.  He  was  often  awa}-, 
for  days  together,  on  mining  and  other  business, 
but  it  was  said  now  that  his  wife,  whom  Muirisc 
still  thought  of  as  Mrs.  Fergus,  had  given  the  alarm, 
on  the  ground  that  if  her  husband  had  been  going 
away  over  night,  he  would  have  told  her.  There 
was  less  liking  for  this  lady  than  ever,  when  this 
report  started  on  its  rounds. 

Three  or  four  of  the  wretched,  unwashed  and 
half-fed  creatures,  who  had  fled  from  O'Daly 's 
evictions  to  the  shelter  of  the  furze-clad  ditches 


^56  TJie  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

outside,  had  been  brought  in.  and  shar[ily  questioned 
at  the  barracks,  on  this  third  da}-,  but  of  what  they 
had  said  the  villagers  knew  nothing.  And,  now, 
toward  evening,  the  excited  groups  of  gossiping 
neiglibors  at  the  corners  saw  Jerr}^  lliggins  himself, 
with  flushed  face  and  apprehensive  e\e,  being  led 
past  with  his  shambling  cousin  toward  constabulary 
headquarters  bv  a  squad  of  armed  policemen. 
Close  upon  the  heels  of  this  amazing  spectacle  came 
the  rumor — whence  started,  who  could  tell  ? — that 
Jerry  had  during  the  day  received  a  telegram 
clearly  implicating  him  in  the  crime.  At  this, 
Muirisc  groaned  aloud. 

"  'Tis  wid  you  alone  I  want  to  spake,"  said  Kate, 
bluntly,  to  the  mother  superior. 

The  April  twilight  was  deepening  the  shadows  in 
the  corners  of  the  convent's  reception  hall,  and  mel- 
lowing into  a  uniformit)'^  of  ugliness  the  faces  of  the 
four  Misses  O'Daly  who  sat  on  the  long  bench  be- 
fore the  fireless  hearth.  These  3'oung  women  were 
strangers  to  Muirisc,  and  had  but  yesterday  arrived 
from  their  country  homes  in  Kerry  or  the  Macroom 
district  to  enter  the  convent  of  which  their  remote 
relation  was  patron.  They  were  plain,  small-farm- 
ers' daughters,  with  flat  faces,  high  cheek-bones  and 
red  hands.  The)'  had  risen  in  clumsy  humilit}'  when 
Kate  entered  the  room,  staring  in  admiration  at  her 
beautv.and  even  more  at  her  hat;  they  had  silently 
seated  themselves  again  at  a  sign  from  the  mother 
superior,  still  staring  in  round-eyed  wonder  at  this 
novel  kind  of  young  woman;  and  they  clung  now 
stolidly  to  their  bench,  in  the  face  of  Kate's  remark. 
Perhaps   they    did    not    comprehend  it.     But    they 


The    Vicfory  of  tJic   "  Cathachy  257 

understood  and  obeyed  the  almost  contemptuous 
gesture  by  which  the  aged  nun  bade  them  leave  the 
room. 

"What  is  it  thin,  Dubhdeasa?"  asked  Mother 
Agnes,  with  affectionate  gravity,  seating  herself  as 
she  spoke.  The  burden  of  eighty  years  rested 
lightly  upon  the  lean  figure  and  thin,  wax-like  face 
of  the  nun.  Only  a  close  glance  would  have  re- 
vealed the  fine  net-work  of  wrinkles  covering  this 
pallid  skin,  and  her  shrewd  observant  eyes  flashed 
still  with  the  keenness  of  youth.  "  Tell  me,  what 
is  it?" 

"  I've  a  broken  heart  in  me,  that's  all  !"  said  the 
girl. 

She  had  walked  to  one  of  the  two  narrow  little 
windows,  and  stood  looking  out,  yet  seeing  nothing 
for  the  mist  of  tears  that  might  not  be  kept  down. 
Only  the  affectation  of  defiance  preserved  her  voice 
from  breaking. 

"  Here  there  will  be  rest  and  p'ace  of  mind," 
intoned  the  other.  "  'T  is  only  a  day  more,  Katie, 
and  thin  ye  '11  be  wan  of  us,  wid  all  the  worrimcPits 
and  throubles  of  the  world  la3'gues  behind  ye." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  with  vehemence  and 
paced  the  stone  floor  restlessly. 

"  'T  is  I  who  '11  be  opening  the  dure  to  'em  and 
bringing  'em  all  in  here,  instead.  No  fear.  Mother 
Agnes,  they  '11  folly  me  wherever  I  go." 

The  other  smiled  gently,  and  shook  her  vailed 
head  in  turn. 

"  'T  is  little  a  child  like  you  drames  of  the  rale 
throubles  of  me,"  she  murmured.  "  Whin  ye  're 
older,  ye  '11  bless  the  good  day   that  gave  ye  this 


258  The  Return   of  TJie   O IMahony. 

holy  refuge,  and  saved  ye  from  thim  all.  Oh,  Katie, 
darlin',  when  1  see  you  standing  be  me  side  in  your 
habit — 't  is  mesilf  had  it  made  be  the  Miss  Maguires 
in  Skibbereen,  the  same  that  sews  the  vestmints  for 
the  bishop  himself — I  can  lay  me  down,  and  say  me 
mine  diinittis  wid  a  thankful  heart  !" 

Kate  sighed  deeply  and  turned  away.  It  was 
the  trusting  sweetness  of  affection  with  which  oh:l 
Mother  Agnes  had  enveloped  her  ever  since  the 
promise  to  take  vows  had  been  wrung  from  her 
reluctant  tongue  that  rose  most  effectually  always 
to  restrain  her  from  reconsidering  that  promise.  It 
was  clear  enough  that  the  venerable  O'Mahony 
nuns  found  in  the  speedy  prospect  of  her  joining 
them  the  one  great  controlling  joy  of  their  lives. 
Thinking  upon  this  now,  it  was  natural  enough  for 
her  to  say  : 

"  Can  thim  O'Daly  girls  rade  and  write,  I 
wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  've  had  schooling,  all  of  them.  'T  is 
not  what  you  had  here,  be  anny  manes,  but  't  wnll 
do." 

"  Just  think,  Mother  Agnes,"  Kate  burst  forth, 
"  what  it  '11  be  like  to  be  shut  with  such  craytures 
as  thim  afther — afther  you  I'ave  us  !" 

"  They  're  very  humble,"  said  the  nun,  hesitating- 
ly. "  'T  is  more  of  that  same  spirit  I  'd  fain  be 
seeing  in  yourself,  Katie  !  And  in  that  they  've 
small  enough  resimblance  to  Cormac  O'Dal}^  who  's 
raked  'em  up  from  the  highways  and  byways  to 
make  their  profession  here.  And  oh — tell  me  now 
— old  Ellen  that  brings  the  milk  mintioned  to  Sister 


The    Victory  of  the  "  Cathach."  259 

Blanaid  that  O'Daly  was  gone  somewhere,  and  that 
there  was  talk  about  it." 

"Talk,  is  it!"  exclaimed  Kate,  whose  introspective 
mood  had  driven  this  subject  from  her  mind,  but 
who  now  spoke  with  eagerness.  "  That's  the  word 
for  it,  'talk.*  'T  is  me  mother,  for  pure  want  of 
something  to  say,  that  putt  the  notion  into  Sergeant 
O'Flaherty's  thick  skull,  and,  w'u'd  ye  belave  it, 
they've  brought  more  poliss  to  the  town,  and  they  're 
worriting  the  loivcs  out  of  the  people  wid  questions 
and  suspicions.  1  'm  told  they  've  even  gone  out  to 
the  bog  and  arrested  some  of  thim  poor  wretches  of 
O'DriscoUs  that  Cormac  putt  out  of  their  cottages 
last  winter.     The  idea  of  it !" 

"  Where  there  's  so  much  smoke  there  's  some  bit 
of  fire,"  said  the  older  woman.     "  Where  is  O'Daly  ?" 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  'T  is  not  m}^  affair!"  she  said,  curtly.  "  I  know 
where  he  'd  be,  if    I  'd  my  will." 

"  Katie,"  chanted  the  nun,  in  tender  reproof, 
"  what  spirit  d  'ye  call  that  for  a  woman  who  's  with- 
in four-an'-tvv^inty  hours  of  making  her  profession  ! 
Pray  for  yourself,  child,  that  these  worldly  feel- 
ings may  be  taken  from  ye  !" 

"  Mother  Agnes,"  said  the  girl,  "  if  I  'm  to  pretind 
to  love  Cormac  O'Daly,  thin,  wance  for  all,  't  is  no 
use !" 

"We  're  bidden  to  love  all  thim  that  despite—" 

The  nun  broke  off  her  quotation  abruptl}'.  A  low 
wailiug  sound  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  beneath 
them  rose  through  the  flags  of  the  floor,  and  filled 
the  chamber  with  a  wierd  and  ghostly  dying  away 
echo.     Mother  Agnes  sprang  to  her  feet. 


26o  The  Return  of  The  G  JMahony. 

"  'T  is  the  Hostage  again  !"  she  cried.  "  Sister 
Ellen  vowed  to  me  she  heard  him  through  the  night. 
Ti\A  yoii  hear  him  just  now  ?" 

"  I  heard  z'/,"  said  Kate,  simply. 

The  mother  superior,  upon  reflection,  seated  her- 
self again. 

"  'T  is  a  strange  business,"  she  said,  at  last.  Her 
shrewd  eyes,  wandering  in  a  meditative  gaze  about 
the  chamber,  avoided  Katie's  face.  "  'T  is  twelve 
years  since  last  we  heard  him,"  she  mused  aloud, 
"  and  that  was  the  night  of  tlie  storm.  'T  is  a  sign 
of  misfortune  to  hear  him,  they  say — and  the  blow- 
ing down  of  the  walls  that  toime  was  taken  be  us  to 
fulfill  that  same.  But  sure,  within  the  week.  The 
O'jNIahone}'  had  gone  on  his  thravels,  and  pious 
Cormac  O'Daly  had  taken  his  place,  and  the  con- 
vint  prospered  more  than  ever.  At  laste  tJiat  was 
no  misfortune." 

"  Hark  to  me.  Mother  Agnes,"  said  Kate,  with 
emphasis.  "  You  never  used  to  favor  the  O'Ma- 
honys  as  well  I  remimber,  but  you  're  a  fair-minded 
woman  and  a  holy  woman,  and  I  challenge  ye  now 
to  tell  me  honest:  Wasn't  anny  wan  hair  on  The 
O'Mahony's  head  worth  the  whole  carcase  of  Cormac 
O'Daly?  'T  was  an  evil  day  for  Muirisc  whin  he 
sailed  away.  If  the  convint  has  prospered,  me  word, 
't  is  what  nothing  else  in  Muirisc  has  done.  And  Tav- 
ing  aside  your  office  as  a  nun,  is  it  sp'akin  well  for  a 
place  to  say  that  three  old  women  in  it  are  better 
off,  and  all  the  rist  have  suffered?" 

"  Katie  !"  admonished  the  other.  "  You  '11  repint 
thim  words  a  week  hence  !     To  hearken  to  ye,  wan 


The   Victory  of  the  "  Cathach"         261 

would  think  yer  heart  was  not  in  the  profession 
ye  're  to  make." 

The  girl  gave  a  scornful,  little  Inugh. 

"  Did  I  ever  pretind  it  was?"  she  demanded. 

"  'T  is  you  are  the  contrary  cra3'ture!"  sighed  the 
mother  superior.  "  Here  now  for  all  these  cin- 
turies,  through  all  the  storms  and  wars  and  confis- 
cations, this  holy  house  has  stud  firm  be  the  old 
faith.  There  's  not  another  family  in  Ireland  has 
kept  the  mass  in  its  own  chapel,  wid  its  own  nuns 
kneeling  before  it,  and  never  a  break  or  interruption 
at  all.  I  '11 1'ave  it  to  yer  own  sinse :  Can  ye  compare 
the  prosperity  of  a  little  village,  or  a  hundred  of  'em, 
wid  such  a  glorious  and  unayqualed  riccord  as  that? 
Why,  girl,  't  is  you  should  be  proud  beyond  measure 
and  thankful  that  ye  're  born  and  bred  and  selected 
to  carry  on  such  a  grand  tradition.  To  be  head  of 
the  convint  of  the  O'Mahonys't  is  more  historically 
splindid  than  to  be  queen  of  England." 

"  But  if  I  come  to  be  the  head  at  all,"  retorted 
Kate,  "  sure  it  will  be  a  convint  of  O'Dalys." 

The  venerable  woman  heaved  another  sigh  and 
looked  at  the  floor  in  silence. 

Kate  pursued  her  advantage  eagerly. 

"  Sure,  I  've  me  full  share  of  pride  in  proper 
things,"  she  said,  "  and  no  O'Mahony  of  them  all 
held  his  family  higher  in  his  mind  than  I  do.  And 
me  blood  lapes  to  every  word  you  say  about  that 
same.  But  would  you — Agnes  O'Mahony  as  ye 
were  born — would  3'ou  be  asking  me  to  have  pride 
in  the  O'Dalys?  And  that  's  what  't  is  intinded  to 
make  of  the  convint  now.  For  my  part,  I'd  be  for 
saying:     '  L'ave  the  convint  doy  now  wid  the  last 


:?62  The  Rettirn  of  The  O Mahony. 

of  the  ladies  of  our  own  family  rather  than  keep  it 
alive  at  the  expinse  of  giving  it  to  the  O'Dalys.'  " 

Mother  Agnes  shook  her  head. 

"  I  've  me  carnal  feelings  no  less  than  you,"  she 
said,  "and  me  family  pride  to  subdue.  But  even  if 
the  victory  of  humility  were  denied  me,  what  c'u'd 
we  do  ?  For  the  moment,  I  '11  put  this  holy  house 
to  wan  side.  What  can  yon  do?  How  can  you 
stand  up  forninst  Cormac  O'Daly's  determination  ? 
Remimber,  widout  him  ye  're  but  a  homeless  gerrel, 
Katie." 

"  And  whose  fault  is  that,  Mother  Agnes  ?"  asked 
Kate,  with  swift  glance  and  tone.  "Will  ye  be  tell- 
ing me  't  was  The  O'Mahony's?  Did  he  I'ave  me 
widout  a  four-penny  bit,  depindent  on  others,  or  was 
it  that  others  stole  me  money  and  desaved  me,  and 
to-day  are  keeping  me  out  of  me  own?  Tell  me 
that,  Mother  Agnes." 

The  nun's  ivory-tinted  face  flushed  for  an  instant, 
then  took  on  a  deeper  pallor.  Her  gaze,  lifted  mo- 
mentarily toward  Kate,  strayed  beyond  her  to 
vacancy.  She  rose  to  her  full  height  and  made  a 
forward  step,  then  stood,  fumbdng  confusedly  at 
her  beads,  and  with  trembling,  half-opened  lips. 

" 'T  is  not  in  me  power,"  she  stammered,  slowl}^ 
and  with  difficulty.  "  There — there  was  something 
— I  've  not  thought  of  it  for  so  long — I  'm  forgetting 
strangely — " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  threw  up  her  withered 
hands  in  a  gesture  of  despair,  and  then,  never  look- 
ing at  the  girl,  turned  and  with  bowed  head  left  the 
room. 

Kate  still  stood  staring  in  mingled  amazement  and 


The   Victory  of  the  "  Cathach^         26 


o 


apprehension  at  tlie  arched  casement  through  which 
Mother  Agnes  had  vanished,  when  the  oak  door 
was  pushed  open  again,  and  Sister  Blanaid,  a 
smaller  and  younger  woman,  yet  bent  and  half- 
palsied  under  the  weight  of  years,  showed  herself  in 
the  aperture.  She  bore  in  her  arms,  shoving  the 
door  aside  with  it  as  she  feebly  advanced,  a  square 
wooden  box,  dust-begrimed  and  covered  in  part 
with  reddish  cow-skin. 

"Take  it  away!"  she  mumbled.  " 'T  is  the 
mother-supayrior's  desire  you  should  take  it  from 
here.  'T  is  an  evil  day  that  's  on  us  !  Go  fling  this 
haythen  box  into  the  bay  and  thin  pray  for  your- 
self and  for  her,  who  's  taken  that  grief  for  ye  she  's 
at  death's  door !" 

The  door  closed  again,  and  Kale  found  herself 
mechanicall}'  bearing  this  box  in  her  arms  and  mak- 
ing her  way  out  through  the  darkened  hallways  to 
the  outer  air.  Only  when  she  stood  on  the  steps  of 
the  porch,  and  set  down  her  burden  to  adjust  her 
hat,  did  she  recognize  it.  Then,  with  a  murmuring 
cry  of  delight,  she  stooped  and  snatched  it  up 
again.  It  was  the  cathach  which  The  O'Mahony 
had  given  her  to  keep. 

On  the  instant,  as  she  looked  out  across  the  open 
green  upon  the  harbor,  the  bay,  the  distant  penin- 
sula of  Kilcrohane  peacefully  gathering  to  itself  the 
shadows  of  the  falling  twilight — how  it  a!l  came 
back  to  her!  On  the  day  of  his  departure — that 
memorable  black-letter  day  in  her  life — he  had  turned 
over  this  rude  little  chest  to  her  ;  he  had  told  her  it 
was  his  luck,  his  talisman,  and  now  should  be  hers. 
She  had  carried  it,  not  to  her  mother's  home,  but  to 


264  The  Return  of  The  O' Mahony. 

the  tiny  school-room  in  the  old  crinvent,  for  safe- 
keeping. She  recalled  now  that  slio  had  told  the 
nuns,  or  Mother  Agnes,  at  least,  what  it  was.  But 
then — then  there  came  a  blank  in  her  memory.  She 
could  not  force  her  mind  to  remember  when  she 
ceased  to  think  about  it — when  it  made  its  way  into 
the  lumber-room  where  it  had  apparently  lain  so 
long. 

But,  at  all  events,  she  had  it  now  again.  She  bent 
her  head  to  touch  with  her  lips  one  of  the  rough 
strips  of  skin  nailed  irregularly  upon  it ;  then,  with 
a  shining  face,  bearing  the  box,  like  some  sanctified 
shrine,  against  her  breast,  she  moved  across  the 
village-common  toward  the  wharf  and  the  water. 

The  injunction  of  quavering  old  Blanaid  to  cast  it 
into  the  bay  drifted  uppermost  in  her  thoughts,  and 
she  smiled  to  herself.  She  had  been  bidden,  also,  to 
pray  ;  and  reflection  upon  this  chased  the  smile 
away.  Truly,  there  was  need  for  prayer.  Her 
perplexed  mind  called  up,  one  by  one,  in  dishearten- 
ing array,  the  miseries  of  her  position,  and  drew  new 
unhappiness  from  the  confusion  of  right  and  wrong 
which  they  presented.  How  could  she  pray  to  be 
delivered  from  what  Mother  Agnes  held  up  as  the 
duties  of  piety  ?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  what 
sincerity  could  there  be  in  any  other  kind  of  spirit- 
ual petition  ? 

She  wandered  along  the  shore-sands  under  the 
cliffs,  tiie  box  tightly  clasped  in  her  arms,  her  eves 
musingly  bent  upon  the  brown  reaches  of  drenched 
seaweed  which  lay  nt  play  with  the  receding  tide. 

Her  mind  conjured  up  the  image  of  a  smiling  and 
ruddy  young   face,  sun-burned   and   thatched    with 


The    Victory  of  the  "  Cathach!'         265 


crisp,  curly  brown  hair — the  face  of  th^t  curious 
young-  O'Mahony  from  Houghton  County.  His 
blue  eye  looked  at  her  half  quizzically,  half  beseech- 
ing, but  Kate  resolutely  drove  the  image  a\va\'. 
He  was  onl}'  the  merest  trifle  less  mortal  than  the 
others. 

So  musing,  she  strolled  onward.  Suddenly  she 
stopped,  and  lifted  her  head  triumphantly  ;  the 
smile  had  flashed  forth  again  upon  her  face,  and  the 
dark  eyes  were  all  aglow.  A  thought  had  come  to 
her — so  convincing,  so  unanswerable,  so  jo3'ously 
uplifting,  that  she  paused  to  marvel  at  having  been 
blind  to  it  so  long.  Clear  as  noon  sunlight  on 
Mount  Gabriel  was  it  what  she  should  pray  for. 

What  could  it  ever  have  been,  this  one  crowning 
object  of  prayer,  but  the  return  of  The  O'Mahony  ? 

As  her  mental  vision  adapted  itself  to  the  radiance 
of  this  revelation,  the  abstracted  glance  which  she 
had  allowed  to  wander  over  the  bay  was  arrested  by 
a  concrete  object.  Two  hundred  yards  from  the 
water's  edge  a  strange  vessel  had  heaved  to,  and 
was  casting  anchor.  Kate  could  hear  the  chain 
rattling  out  from  the  capstan,  even  as  she  looked. 

The  sight  sent  all  prayerful  thoughts  scurrying 
out  of  her  head.  The  presence  of  vessels  of  the 
size  of  the  new-comer  was  in  itself  most  unusual 
at  Muirisc.  But  Kate's  practiced  eye  noticed  a 
strange  novelty.  The  craft,  though  thick  of  beam 
and  ungainly  in  line,  carried  the  staight  running 
bowsprit  of  a  cutter,  and  in  addition  to  its  cutter 
sheets  had  a  jigger  lug-sail.  The  girl  watched  these 
eccentric  sails  as  they  were  dropped  and  reefed, 
with   a  curious  sense  of  having  seen  them  some- 


266  The  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

where  before — as  if  in  a  vision  or  some  old  picture- 
book  of  childhood.  Confused  memories  stirred 
within  her  as  she  gazed,  and  held  her  mind  in  day- 
dream captivity.  A  figure  she  seemed  vaguely  to 
know,  stood  now  at  the  gunwale. 

The  spell  was  rudely  broken  by  a  wild  shout 
from  the  cliff  close  above  her.  On  the  instant, 
amid  a  clatter  of  falling  stones  and  a  veritable 
landslide  of  sand,  rocks  and  turf,  a  human  figure 
came  rolling,  clambering  and  tumbling  down  the 
declivity,  and  ran  toward  her,  its  arms  stretched 
and  waving  with  frantic  gestures,  and  emitting 
inarticulate  cries  and  groans  as  it  came. 

The  astonished  girl  instinctively  raised  the  box 
in  her  hands,  to  use  it  as  a  missile.  But,  lo,  it  was 
old  Murphy  who,  half  stumbling  to  his  knees  at  her 
feet,  fiercely  clutched  her  skirts,  and  pointed  in  a 
frenzy  of  excitement  seaward  ! 

•'  Wid  yer  own  eyes  look  at  it — it,  Miss  Katie !" 
he  screamed.  "  Ye  can  see  it  yerself !  It  's  not 
dr'aming  I  am  I" 

"  It  's  drunk  ye  are  instead,  thin,  Murphy,"  said 
the  girl,  sharply,  though  in  great  wonderment. 

"  Wid  joy!  Wid  joy  I  'm  drunk!"  the  old  man 
shouted,  dancing  on  the  sands  and  slippery  sea-litter 
like  one  possessed,  and  whirling  his  arms  about  his 
head. 

"  Murphy,  man!  What  ails  ye?  In  the  name  of 
the  Lord — what — " 

The  browned,  wild-eyed,  ragged  old  madman  had 
started  at  a  headlong  pace  across  the  wet  waste  of 
weeds,  and  plunged  now  through  the  breakers,  wad- 


The    Vulory  of  the  '' CathacIC         267 

ing  wilh  long  strides — knee-deep,  then  immersed  to 
the  waist.      He  turned  for  an  instant  to  shout  back  : 

"  I  '11  swim  to  him  if  I  drown  for  it!  ' Tis  the  mas- 
ter come  back  /'' 

The  girl  fell  to  her  knees  on  the  sand,  then  rev- 
erently bowed  her  head  till  it  rested  upon  the  box 
before  her. 


/      I 


-»-,       .iSi 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

BERNARD'S    GOOD    CHEER. 

"  Sorra  a  wink  o*  sleep  could  I  get  the  night," 
groaned  the  wife  of  O'Daly — Mrs.  Fergus — "  what 
with  me  man  muthered,  an'  me  daughter  drowned, 
an'  me  nerves  that  disthracted  't  was  past  the  power 
of  hot  dhrink  to  abate  em." 

It  was  early  morning  in  the  reception  hall  of 
the  convent.  The  old  nuns  sat  on  their  bench  in  a 
row,  blinking  in  the  bright  light  which  poured 
through  the  casement  as  they  gazed  at  their  visitor, 
and  tortured  their  unworldly  wits  over  the  news 
she  brought.  The  young  chaplain.  Father  Jago, 
had  come  in  from  the  mass,  still  wearing  soutane 
and  beretta.  He  leaned  his  burly  weight  against 
the  mantel,  smiling  inwardly  at  thoughts  of  break- 
fast, but  keeping  his  heavy  face  drawn  in  solemn 
lines  to  fit  these  grievous  tidings. 

The  mother  superior  sighed  despairingly,  and 
spoke  in  low,  quavering  tones.  "  Here,  too,  no  one 
sleeps  a  wink,"  she  said.  "  Ah,  thin,  't  is  too  much 
sorrow  for  us !  By  rayson  of  our  years  we  've  no 
stringth  to  bear  it." 
[268] 


Bernard's  Good  Cheer.  269 

"Ah — sure — 't  is  different  wid  you,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Fergus.  "You  've  no  proper  notion  of  the 
m'aning  of  sleep.  Faith,  all  your  life  you  've  been 
wakened  bechune  naps  by  your  prayer-bell.  'T  is 
no  throuble  to  you.  You  're  accustomed  to  't.  But 
wid  me — if  I  've  me  rest  broken,  1  'm  killed  entirely. 
'T  is  me  nerves  !" 

"  Ay,  them  nerves  of  yours — did  I  ever  hear  of 
'em  before?"  put  in  Mother  Agnes,  with  a  moment- 
ary gleam  of  carnal  delight  in  combat  on  her 
waxen  face.  Then  sadness  resumed  its  sway. 
"Aye,  aye,  Katie!  Katie!"  she  moaned,  slowly 
shaking  her  vailed  head.  "  Child  of  our  prayers, 
daughter  of  the  White  Foam,  pride  of  the  O'Ma- 
honys,  darlin'  of  our  hearts — what  ailed  ye  to  I'ave 
us?" 

The  mother  superior's  words  quavered  upward 
into  a  wail  as  they  ended.  The  sound  awakened 
the  ancestral  "  keening  "  instinct  in  the  other  aged 
nuns,  and  stirred  the  thin  blood  in  their  veins.  They 
broke  forth  in  weird  lamentations. 

"  Her  hair  was  the  glory  of  Desmond,  that 
weighty  and  that  fine!"  chanted  Sister  Ellen.  "Ah, 
wirra,  wirra  !" 

"  She  had  it  from  me,"  said  Mrs.  Fergus,  her 
hand  straying  instinctively  to  her  crimps.  Her 
voice  had  caught  the  mourning  infection :  "  Ah-hoo  ! 
Kalie  Avourneen,"  she  wailed  in  vocal  sympathy. 
"  Come  back  to  us,  darlint !" 

"  She  'd  the  neck  of  the  Swan  of  the  Lake  of 
Three  Castles!"  mumbled  Sister  Blanaid.  "  'T  was 
that  same  was  said  of  Grace  O'Sullivan — the  bride 
of  The  O'Mahony  of  Ballydivlin — an'  he  was  kilt  on 


270  The  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

the  strand  benayth  the  walls — an'  she  lookin*  on 
wid  her  grand  black  eyes — " 

"  Is  it  floatin'  in  the  waves  ye  are,  ma  creevin  cno — 
wid  the  fishes  surroundin'  ye?"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Fergus. 

Sister  Blanaid's  thick  tongue  took  up  the  keening 
again.  "  'T  was  I  druv  her  out !  *  Go  'long  wid  yc,' 
says  I,  *  an'  t'row  that  haythen  box  o'  yours  into  tlir- 
bay' — an'  she  went  and  t'rew  her  purty  self  iji 
instead;  woe  an'  prosthration  to  this  house ! — rii." 
may  the  Lord — " 

Father  Jago  at  this  took  his  elbow  from  the  man- 
tel and  straightened  himself.  "  Whisht,  now,  aisy  !  " 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  parental  authority.  "  There  's 
modheration  in  all  things.  Sure  ye  haven't  a  scin- 
tilla of  evidence  that  there  's  annyone  dead  at  all. 
Where  's  the  sinse  of  laminting  a  loss  ye  're  not  sure 
of — and  that,  too,  on  an  impty  stomach  ?" 

"  Nevir  bite  or  sup  more  will  I  take  till  1  've  tid- 
ings of  her!  '  said  the  mother  superior. 

"  The  more  rayson  why  1  '11  not  be  waiting  longer 
for  3e  now,"  commented  the  priest  ;  and  with  this 
he  left  the  room.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind 
him,  a  grateful  odor  of  frying  bacon  momentarily 
spread  upon  the  air.  Mrs.  Fergus  sniffed  it,  and 
half  rose  from  her  seat  ;  but  the  nuns  clung  reso- 
lutely to  their  theme,  and  she  sank  back  again. 

"  'T  is  my  belafe,"  Sister  Ellen  began,  "  that  voice 
we  heard,  't  is  from  no  Hostage  at  all — 't  is  the  ban- 
shee of  the  O'Mahonys." 

The  mother  superior  shook  her  head. 

"  Is  it  likely,  thin,  Ellen  O'Mahon}-,"  she  queried, 
"  that  ^//r  banshee  would  be  distressed  for  an  O'Dal}'  ? 


Bernard's  Good  Cheer.  i~\ 

Sure  the  grand  noise  was  made  whin  Cormac  him- 
self disappeared." 

"  His  marryin'  me — 't  is  clear  enough  that  putt  him 
in  the  family,"  said  Mrs.  Fergus.  "  'T  would  be  fiat 
injustice  to  me  to  I've  my  man  go  an'  never  a  keen 
raised  for  him.  1  '11  stand  on  me  rights  for  that 
much  Agnes  O'Mahony." 

"  A  fine  confusion  ye  'd  have  of  it,  thin,"  retorted 
the  mother  superior.  "  The  0'Dal3'S  have  their  own 
banshee — she  sat  up  her  keen  in  Kilcrohane  these 
hundreds  of  years — and  for  ours  to  be  meddlin' 
because  she  's  merely  related  by  marriage — sure, 
't  would  not  be  endured." 

The  dubious  problem  of  a  family  banshee's  duties 
has  never  been  elucidated  beyond  this  point,  for  on 
the  instant  there  came  a  violent  ringing  of  the  big 
bell  outside,  the  hoarse  clangor  of  which  startled  the 
women  into  excited  silence.  A  minute  later,  the 
white-capped  lame  old  woman-servant  threw  open 
the  door. 

A  young  man,  with  a  ruddy,  smiling  face  and  a 
carriage  of  boyish  confidence,  entered  the  room. 
He  cast  an  inquiring  glance  over  the  group.  Then 
recognizing  Mrs.  Fergus,  he  gave  a  little  exclam- 
ation of  pleasure,  and  advanced  toward  her  with  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  VVh}',  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  O'Daly  ?"  he 
exclaimed,  cordially  shaking  her  hand.  "  Pray  keep 
your  seat.  I'm  just  playing  in  luck  to  find  yoti  here. 
Won't  you — eh — be  kind  enough  to — eh — introduce 
me  ?" 

"  'T  is  a  young  gintleman  from  Ameriky,  Mr. 
O'Mahony     by    name,"    Mrs.     Fergus     stammered, 


272  The  Rct7Lrn  of  TJic  O Maho7iy. 

flushed  with  satisfaction  in    his    remembrance,  but 
doubtful  as  to  the  attitude  of  the  nuns. 

The  ladies  of  the  Hostage's  Tears  had  drawn 
themselves  into  as  much  dignified  erectness  as  their 
age  and  infirmities  permitted.  They  eyed  this 
amazing  new-comer  in  mute  surprise.  Mother 
Agnes,  after  the  first  shock  at  the  invasion,  nodded 
frostily  in  acknowledgment  of  his  respectful  bow. 

"  Get  around  an'  spake  to  her  in  her  north  ear," 
whispered  Mrs.  Fergus  ;  "  she  can't  hear  ye  in  the 
other." 

Bernard  had  been  long  enough  in  West  Carbery 
to  comprehend  her  meaning.  In  that  strange  old 
district  there  is  no  right  or  left,  no  front  or  back — 
only  points  of  the  compass.  A  gesture  from  Mrs. 
Fergus  helped  him  now  to  guess  where  the  north 
might  lie  in  matters  auricular. 

"  I  didn't  stand  on  ceremony,"  he  said,  laying  his 
hat  on  the  table  and  drawing  off  his  gloves.  "  I've 
driven  over  post-haste  from  Skibbereen  this  morn- 
ing:— the  car's  outside — and  I  rushed  in  here  the  first 
thing.     1 — I  hope  sincerely  that  I'm  in  time." 

"  '  In  toime  ?'"  the  superior  repeated,  in  a  tone  of 
annoyed  mystification.  "  That  depinds  entoirely, 
sir,  on  your  own  intintions.  I  've  no  information, 
sir,  as  to  either  who  you  ai^e  or  what  you're  afther 
doing." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  said  Bernard,  in  affable 
apology.  "  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that.  I'll 
explain  things,  ma'am,  if  you  '11  permit  me.  As  I 
said,  I've  just  raced  over  this  morning  from  Skib- 
bereen." 


Bernard's  Good  Cheer.  273 

Mother  Agnes  made  a  stately  inclination  of  her 
vailed  head. 

"You  had  a  grand  morning  for  your  drive,"  she 
said. 

"  I  didn't  notice,"  the  young  man  replied,  with  a 
frank  smile.  "  I  was  too  busy  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  The  truth  is,  I  spent  last  evening  with 
the  bishop." 

Again  the  mother  superior  bowed  slightly. 

"  An  estimable  man,"  she  remarked,  coldly. 

"Oh,  yes;  nothing  could  have  been  friendlier," 
pursued  Bernard,  "  than  the  way  he  treated  me. 
And  the  day  before  that  1  was  at  Cashel,  and  had  a 
long  talk  with  the  archbishop.  He's  a  splendid  old 
gentleman,  too.  Not  the  least  sign  of  airs  or 
nonsense  about  him." 

Mother  Agnes  rose. 

"  I  'm  deloighted  to  learn  that  our  higher  clergy 
prodhuce  so  favorable  an  impression  upon  you," 
she  said,  gravely;  "  but,  if  you'll  excuse  us,  sir,  this 
is  a  house  of  mourning,  and  our  hearts  are  heavy 
wid  grief,  and  we  're  not  in  precisely  the  mood — " 

Bernard  spoke  in  an  altered  tone  : 

"Oh!  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons!  Mourning, 
did  you  say  ?     May  1  ask — " 

Mrs.  Fergus  answered  his  unspoken  question. 

"  Don't  you  know  it,  thin  ?  'T  is  me  husband, 
Cormac  O'Daly.  Sure  he  's  murdhered  an'  his 
body's  nowhere  to  be  found,  an'  the  poliss  are 
scourin'  all  the  counthry  roundabout,  an'  there  's  a 
long  account  of  't  in  the  Freeman  sint  from 
Bantry,  an'  more  poliss  have  been  dhrafted  into 
Muirisc,  an'  they  've   arrested  Jerry  Higgins  and 


2  74  ^^^^  Retzirn  of  The  GMahony. 

that  long-shanked,  shiverin'  omadhaim  of  a  cousin  of 
his.  'T  is  known  they  had  a  tellgram  warnin'  thim 
not  to  be  afraid — " 

"  Oh,  by  George  !     Well,  this  is  rich  !" 

The  young  man's  spontaneous  exclamations 
brought  the  breathless  narrative  of  Mrs.  Fergus  to 
an  abrupt  stop.  The  women  gazed  at  him  in  stupe- 
faction. His  rosy  and  juvenile  face  had,  at  her  first 
words,  worn  a  wondering  and  puzzled  expression. 
Gradually,  as  she  went  on,  a  light  of  comprehension 
had  dawned  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  had  broken  in 
upon  her  catalogue  of  woes  with  a  broad  grin  on 
his  face. 

"  Igad,  this  is  rich !"  he  repeated.  He  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  withdrew  them,  and  then  took 
a  few  steps  up  and  down  the  room,  chuckling  deeply 
to  himself. 

The  power  of  speech  came  first  to  Mother  Agnes. 

"  If  't  is  to  insult  our  griefs  you  've  come,  young 
sir,"  she  began  ;  "  if  that 's  your  m'aning — " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  madam  !"'  Bernard  protested. 
**  I  'd  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  dream  of  such 
a  thing.  I  've  too  much  respect.  I  've  an  aunt  who 
is  a  religious,  myself.  No,  what  I  mean  is  it  's  all  a 
joke — that  is,  a  mistake.     O'Daly  isn't  dead  at  all." 

"  What 's  that  you  're  sayin* .?"  put  in  Mrs.  Fergus, 
sharply.     "  Me  man  is  aloive,  ye  say  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  " — the  youngster  went  ofif  into  a 
fresh  fit  of  chuckling  -  "  of  course,  he  is — alive  and 
kicking.     Yes,  especially  kicking  !" 

"  The  Lord's  mercy  on  us !"  said  the  mother 
superior.     "  And  where  would  Cormac  be,  thin  !" 

**  Well,  that 's  another  matter.     I  don't  know  that  I 


Bei'iianVs  Good  Cheer.  275 

can  tell  3^011  just  now  ;  but,  take  my  word  for  it,  he  's 
as  alive  as  1  am,  and  he  's  perfectly  safe,  too.'' 

The  astonished  pause  which  followed  was  broken 
by  the  mumbling  monologue  of  poor  half-palsied 
Sister  Blanaid  : 

"  1  putt  the  box  in  her  hands,  an'  I  says,  says  1  : 
'  Away  wid  ye,  now,  an'  t'row  it  into  the  say  !'  An' 
thin  she  wint." 

The  other  women  exchanged  startled  glances. 
In  their  excitement  they  had   forgotten  about  Kate. 

Before  they  could  speak,  Bernard,  with  a  m3'sti- 
lied  glance  at  the  spluttering  old  lady,  had  taken 
up  the  subject  of  their  frightened  thoughts. 

"But  what  I  came  for,"  he  said,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other,  "  what  I  was  specially  in  a  stew  about, 
was  to  get  here  before — before  Miss  Kate  had  taken 
her  vows.  The  ceremony  was  set  down  for  to-day, 
as  I  understand.  Perhaps  I  'm  wrong ;  but  that  's 
why  I  asked  if  1  was  in  time." 

"  You  are  in  time,"  answered  Mother  Agnes, 
solemnly. 

Her  sepulchral  tone  jarred  upon  the  young  man's 
ear.  Looking  into  the  speaker's  pallid,  vail-framed 
face,  he  was  troubled  vaguely  by  a  strange,  almost 
sinister  significance  in  her  glance. 

"  You  're  in  fine  time,"  the  mother  superior 
repeated,  and  bowed  her  head. 

"  Man  alive  !"  Mrs.  Fergus  exclaimed,  rising  and 
leaning  toward  him.  "  You  've  no  sinse  of  what 
you  're  saying.     Me  daughter's  gone,  too  !" 

** '  Gone !'     How  g:one  ?     What  do  vou  mean  ?" 

Bernard  gazed   in   blank  astonishment   into  the 


276  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony, 

vacuous  face  of  Mrs.  Fergus.  Mechanically  he 
strode  toward  her  and  took  her  hand  firmly  in  his. 

"  Where  has  she  gone  to?"  he  demanded,  as  his 
scattered  wits  came  under  control  again.  "  Do 
you  mean  that  she  's  runaway  ?     Can't  you  speak?" 

Mrs.  Fergus,  thus  stoutly  adjured,  began  to 
whimper  : 

"  They  sint  her  from  here — 't  was  always  harsh 
they  were  wid  her — ye  heard  Sister  Blanaid  yerself 
say  they  sint  her — an'  out  she  wint  to  walk  under 
the  cliffs — some  b'yes  of  Peggy  Clancy  saw  her 
go — an'  she  never  came  back  through  the  long 
night — an'  me  wid  no  wink  o'  sleep — an'  me  nerves 
that  bad  !" 

Overcome  by  her  emotions,  Mrs.  Fergus,  her 
hand  still  in  Bernard's  grasp,  bent  forward  till  her 
crimps  rested  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  She 
moved  her  forehead  gingerly  about  till  it  seemed 
certain  that  the  ornaments  were  sustaining  no  injury. 
Then  she  gave  her  maternal  feelings  full  sway  and 
sobbed  with  fervor  against  the  coat  of  the  young 
man  from  Houghton  County. 

"  Don't  cry,  Mrs.  O'Daly,"  was  all  Bernard  could 
think  of  to  say. 

The  demonstration  might  perhaps  have  impressed 
him  had  he  not  perforce  looked  over  the  weeping 
lady's  head  straight  into  the  face  of  the  mother 
superior.  There  he  saw  written  such  contemptuous 
incredulity  that  he  himself  became  conscious  of 
skepticism, 

"  Dont  take  on  so !"  he  urged,  this  time  less 
gently,  and  strove  to  disengage  himself. 

But  Mrs.  Fergus  clung  to  his  hand  and  resolutely 


Bernard's  Good  Cheer.  277 

buried  her  face  ag'ainst  his  collar.  Sister  Ellen  had 
risen  to  her  feet  beside  Mother  Agnes,  and  he  heard 
the  two  nuns  sniff  indig-nantly.  Then  he  realized 
that  the  situation  was  ridiculous. 

"  What  is  it  you  suspect  ?"  he  asked  of  the  mother 
superior,  eager  to  make  a    diversion   of  some  kind. 

"  You  can't  be  imagining  that  harm  's  come  to 
Miss  Kate — that  she  's  drowned  ?" 

"  That  same  zvas  our  belafe,"  said  Mother  Agnes, 
glaring  icily  upon  him  and  his  sobbing  burden. 

The  inference  clearly  was  that  the  spectacle 
before  her  atTronted  eyes  had  been  enough  to  over- 
turn all  previous  convictions,  of  whatever  character. 

Bernard  hesitated  no  longer.  He  almost  wrenched 
his  hand  free  and  then  firmly  pushed  Mrs.  Fergus 
away. 

"  It 's  all  nonsense,"  he  saic^,  assuming  a  confidence 
he  did  not  wholly  feel,  "  She's  no  more  drowned 
than  1  am." 

"  Faith,  I  had  me  fears  ior  you,  wid  such  a  dale  of 
tears  let  loose  upon  ye,"  remarked  Mother  Agnes, 
dryly. 

The  young  man  looked  straight  into  the  reverend 
countenance  of  the  superior  and  confided  to  it  an 
audacious  wink. 

"  I  '11  be  back  in  no  time,"  he  said,  taking  up  his 
hat.  "  Now  don't  you  fret  another  bit.  She  's  all 
right.  1  know  it.  And  I  '11  go  and  find  her."  And 
with  that  he  was  gone. 

An  ominous  silence  pervaded  the  reception  hall. 
The  two  nuns,  still  standing,  stared  with  wrathful 
severity  at  Mrs.  Fergus.  She  bore  their  gaze  with 
but  an  indifferent  show  of  composure,  patting  her 


278  The  Return  of  The  G Mahoiiy. 

disordered  crimps  with  an  awkward  hand,  and  then 
moving  aimlessly  across  the  room. 

"  1  '11  be  going  now,  I  'm  thinking,"  she  said,  at 
last,  yet  lingered  in  spite  of  her  words. 

The  nuns  looked  slowly  at  one  another,  and  ut- 
tered not  a  word. 

"  Well,  thin,  't  is  small  comfort  I  have,  annyway, 
or  consolation  either,  from  the  lot  of  ye,"  Mrs.  Fer- 
gus felt  impelled  to  remark,  drawing  her  shawl  up 
on  her  head  and  walking  toward  the  door.  "An' 
me  wid  me  throubles,  an'  me  nerves." 

"  Is  it  consolation  you  're  afther.?  "retorted  Mother 
Agnes,  bitterly.  "  I  haven't  the  proper  kind  of 
shoulder  on  me  iox:  your  variety  of  consolation." 

"  Thrue  ye  have  it,  Agnes  O'Mahony,"  Mrs.  Fer- 
gus came  back,  with  her  hand  on  the  latch.  "  An' 
by  the  same  token,  thim  shoulders  were  small  con- 
solation to  you  yourself,  till  you  got  your  nun's  vail 
to  hide  'em  !" 

When  she  had  flounced  her  way  out,  the  mother 
superior  remained  standing,  her  gaze  bent  upon  the 
floor. 

"  Sister  Ellen,"  she  said  at  last,  "  me  powers  are 
failing  me.  'T  is  time  1  laid  down  me  burden.  For 
the  first  time  in  me  life  I  was  unayqual  to  her  im- 
piddence." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   RESIDENT   MAGISTRATE. 

When  Bernard  O'Mahony  found  himself  outside 
the  convent  gateway,  he  paused  to  consider  matters. 

The  warm  spring  sunlight  so  broadly  enveloped 
the  square  in  w^hich  he  stood,  the  shining  white 
cottages  and  gray  old  walls  behind  him  and  the 
harbor  and  pale-blue  placid  bay  beyond,  in  its  grate- 
ful radiance,  that  it  was  not  in  nature  to  think  gloomy 
thoughts.  And  nothing  in  the  young  man's  own 
nature  tended  that  way,  either. 

Yet  as  he  stopped  short,  looked  about  him,  and 
even  took  off  his  hat  to  the  better  ponder  the  situa- 
tion, he  saw  that  it  was  even  more  complicated  than 
he  had  thought.  His  plan  of  campaign  had  rested 
upon  two  bold  strategic  actions.  He  had  deemed 
them  extremely  smart,  at  the  time  of  their  invention. 
Both  had  been  put  into  execution,  and,  lo,  the  state 
of  affairs  was  worse  than  ever  ! 

The  problem  had  been  to  thwart  and  overturn 
O'Daly  and  to  prevent  Kate  from  entering  the  con- 
vent. These  two  objects  were  so  intimately  con- 
nected and  dependent  one  upon  the  other,  that  it 
had  been  impossible  to  separate  them  in  procedure. 
He  had  caused  O'Daly  to  be  immured  in  secrecy  in 
the  underground  cell,  the  while  he  went  off  to  secure 

[279J 


2  8o  The  Rettirn  of  The   G Mahony. 

episcopal  interference  in  the  convent's  plans.  His 
journey  had  been  crowned  with  entire  •success.  It 
had  involved  a  trip  to  Cashel,  it  is  true,  but  he  had 
obtained  an  order  forbidding  the  ladies  of  the  Host- 
age's Tears  to  add  to  their  numbers.  Returning  in 
triumph  with  this  invincible  weapon,  he  discovered 
now  that  O'Daly's  disappearance  had  been  placarded 
all  over  Ireland  as  a  murder,  that  his  two  allies  were 
in  custody  as  suspected  assassins,  and  that — most 
puzzling  and  disturbing  feature  of  it  all — Kate  her- 
self had  vanished. 

He  did  not  attach  a  moment's  credence  to  the 
drowning  theory.  Daughters  of  the  Coast  of  White 
Foam  did  not  get  drowned.  Nor  was  it  likely  that 
other  harm  had  befallen  a  girl  so  capable,  so  self- 
reliant,  so  thoroughly  at  home  in  all  the  districts 
roundabout.  Obviously  she  was  in  hiding  some- 
w^here  in  the  neighborhood.  The  question  was 
where  to  look  for  her.  Or,  would  it  be  better  to 
take  up  the  other  branch  of  the  problem  first? 

His  perplexed  gaze,  roaming  vaguely  over  the 
broad  space,  was  all  at  once  arrested  by  a  gleam  of 
flashing  light  in  motion.  Concentrating  his  atten- 
tion, he  saw  that  it  came  from  the  polished  barrel 
of  a  rifle  borne  on  the  arm  of  a  constable  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  square.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  walked 
briskly  over  to  this  corner.  The  constable  had 
gone,  and  Bernard  followed  him  up  the  narrow, 
winding  little  street  to  the  barracks. 

As  he  walked,  he  noted  knots  of  villagers  clus- 
tered about  the  cottage  doors,  evidently  discuss- 
ing some  topic  of  popular  concern.  In  the  road- 
way before   the  barracks  were  drawn  up  two  out- 


TlLc  Resident  Magistrate.  281 

side  cars.  A  policeman  in  uniform  occupied  the 
driver's  seat  on  each,  and  a  half-dozen  others 
lounged  about  in  the  sunshine  by  the  gate-posls, 
their  rifles  slung  over  their  backs  and  their  round, 
visorless  caps  cocked  aggressively  over  their  ears. 
These  gentr}^  bent  upon  him  a  general  scowl  as  he 
walked  past  them  and  into  llie  barracks. 

A  dapper,  dark-faced,  exquisitely  dressed  young 
gentleman,  wearing  slate-tinted  gloves  and  with  a 
flower  in  his  button-hole,  stood  in  the  hall-way — 
two  burly  constables  assisting  him  meanwhile  to  get 
into  a  light,  silk-lined  top-coat. 

"  Come,  3'ou  fool!  Hold  the  sleeve  lower  down, 
can't  you !"  this  young  gentleman  cried,  testily,  as 
Bernard  entered.  The  two  constables  divided  the 
epithet  between  them  humbly,  and  perfected  their 
task. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  officer  in  charge  here,"  said 
Bernard,  prepared  by  this  for  discourtesy. 

The  young  gentleman  glanced  him  over,  and  on 
the  instant  altered  his  demeanor. 

"  I  am  Major  Snaffle,  the  resident  magistrate,"  he 
said,  with  great  politeness.  "  1  've  only  a  minute  to 
spare — I  'm  driving  over  to  Bantry  with  some  pris- 
oners— but  if  you  '11  come  this  way — "  and  without 
further  words,  he  led  the  other  into  a  room  off  the 
hall,  the  door  of  which  the  two  constables  rushed 
to  obsequiously  open. 

"  I  dare  say  those  are  the  prisoners  I  have  come 
to  talk  about,"  remarked  Bernard,  when  the  door 
had  closed  behind  them.  He  noted  that  this  was 
the  first  comfortably  furnjshecl  room  he  had  seen  in 


282  The  Return  of  The   (7 Mahouy. 

Ireland,  as  he  took  the  seat  indicated  by  the  major's 
gesture. 

Major  Snaffle  lifted  his  brows  slightly  at  this,  and 
fastened  his  bright  brown  eyes  in  a  keen,  searching 
glance  upon  Bernard's  face. 

"  Hm-m !"  he  said.  "  You  are  an  American,  I 
perceive." 

"  Yes — my  name  's  O'Mahony.  I  come  from 
Michigan." 

At  sound  of  this  Milesian  cognomen,  the  glance 
of  the  stipendiary  grew  keener  still,  if  possible,  and 
the  corners  of  his  carefully  trimmed  little  mustache 
were  drawn  sharply  down.  There  was  less  polite- 
ness in  the  manner  and  tone  of  his  next  inquiry. 

"Well — what  is  3-our  business?  What  do  you 
want  to  say  about  them  ?" 

"  First  of  all,"  said  Bernard,  "  let  's  be  sure  we  're 
talking  about  the  same  people.  You  've  got  two 
men  under  arrest  here — Jerry  Higgins  of  this  place, 
and  a  cousin  of  his  from — from  Boston,  I  think 
it  is." 

The  major  nodded,  and  kept  his  sharp  gaze  on  the 
other's  countenance  unabated. 

"  What  of  that?"  he  asked,  now  almost  brusquely. 

"  Well,  I  only  drove  in  this  morning — I  'm  in  the 
mining  business,  myself — but  I  understand  they  've 
been  arrested  for  the  m — that  is,  on  account  of  the 
disappearance  of  old  Mr.  O'Daly." 

The  resident  magistrate  did  not  assent  by  so  much 
as  a  word.  "Well?  What  's  that  to  you?"  he 
queried,  coldly. 

"  It  's  this  much  to  me,"  Bernard  retorted,  not 


The  Resident  Magistrate.  283 

with  entire  good-temper,  "  that  O'Daly  isn't  dead 
at  all." 

Major  Snaffle's  eyebrows  went  up  still  further, 
with  a  little  jerk.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then 
said:  "I  hopj  you  kn<^w  t'l'^  importance  of  what 
you  are  saying.     We  don' .  li^'.c  to  be  fooled  with." 

"  The  fooling  has  been  done  by  these  who  started 
the  story  that  he  was  murdered,"  remarked  Ber- 
nard. 

"  One  must  always  be  prepared  for  that — at  some 
stage  of  a  case — among  these  Irish,"  said  tlie  resi- 
dent magistrate.  "  I  've  only  been  in  Ireland  two 
years,  but  I  know  their  lying  tricks  as  well  as  if  I  'd 
been  born  among  them.  Service  in  India  helps  one 
to  understand  all  the  inferior  races." 

"  I  haven't  been  here  even  two  months,"  said  the 
young  man  from  Houghton  County,  "  but  so  far  as 
I  can  figure  it  out,  the  Irishmen  who  do  the  b;ilk 
of  the  lying  wear  uniforms  and  monkej^-caps  like 
paper-collar  boxes  perched  over  one  ear.  The 
police,  I  mean." 

"We  won't  discuss  that,''  put  in  the  major, 
peremptorily.     "  Do  you  know  where  O'Daly  is?'' 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  answered  Bernard. 

"Where?" 

"  You  wouldn't  know  if  I  told  you,  but  I  '11  take 
you  to  the  place — that  is,  if  you  *ll  let  me  talk  to 
your  prisoners  first." 

Major  Snaffle  turned  the  proposition  over  in  his 
mind.  "  Take  me  to  the  place,"  he  commented  at 
last;  "that  means  that  you  've  got  him  hidden 
somewhere,  I  assume." 

Bernard  looked  into  the  shrewd,  twinkling  eyes 


284  The  Return  of  The   O  Mahony. 

with  a  new  i-espect.  "  TlKit  's  about  the  size  of,"  he 
assented. 

"  Hm-m  !  Yes.  That  makes  a  new  offense  of  it, 
with  you  as  an  accessory,  1  take  it — or  ought  I  to 
say  principal  ?" 

Bernard  was  not  at  all  dismayed  by  this  shift  in 
the  situation. 

"  Call  it  what  you  like,"  he  answered.  "  See 
here,  major,"  he  went  on,  in  a  burst  of  confidence, 
"  this  whole  thing's  got  nothing  to  do  with  politics 
or  the  potato  crop  or  an3'thing  else  that  need  con- 
cern you.  It  's  purely  a  private  family  matter.  In 
a  day  or  two,  it  '11  be  in  such  shape  that  I  can  tell 
you  all  about  it.  For  that  matter,  I  could  now, 
only  it  's  such  a  deuce  of  a  long  story." 

The  major  thought  again. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  '*  You  can  see  the  prisoners 
in  my  presence,  and  then  I  '11  give  you  a  chance  to 
produce  O'Daly.  I  ought  to  warn  3'ou,  though, 
that  it  may  be  all  used  against  you,  later  on." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  replied  Bernard. 

A  minute  later,  he  was  following  the  resident 
magistrate  up  a  winding  flight  of  narrow  stone 
stairs,  none  too  clean.  A  constable,  with  a  bunch 
of  keys  jingling  in  his  hand,  preceded  them,  and,  at 
the  top,  threw  open  a  heavy,  iron-cased  door.  The 
solitary  window  of  the  room  they  entered  had  been 
so  blocked  with  thick  bars  of  metal  that  very  little 
light  came  through.  Bernard,  with  some  difficulty, 
made  out  two  figures  lying  in  one  corner  on  a  heap 
of  straw  and  old  cast-off  clothing. 

"  Get  up  !  Here  's  some  one  to  see  you  !"  called 
out  the  major,  in  the  3ame  tone  he  had  used  to  the 


The  Resident  Magistrate.  285 


constables  while  they  were    helping   on   the   over- 
coat. 

Bernard,  as  he  heard  it,  felt  himself  newly  in- 
formed as  to  the  spirit  in  which  India  was  governed. 
Perhaps  it  was  necessary  there  ;  but  it  made  him 
grind  his  teeth  to  think  of  its  use  in  Ireland. 

The  two  figures  scrambled  to  their  feet,  and  Ber- 
nard shook  hands  with  both. 

"  Egor,  sir,  you  're  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  !"  ex- 
claimed Jerry,  effusively,  wringing  the  visitor's 
fingers  in  his  fat  clasp.  "  Are  ye  come  to  take  us 
out?" 

"  Yes,  that  'II  be  easy  enough,"  said  Bernard. 
"  You  got  my  telegram  all  right  ?" 

Major  Snaffle  took  his  tablets  from  a  pocket,  and 
made  a  minute  on  them  unobserved. 

"  I  did— I  did,"  said  Jerry,  buoyantly.  Then  with 
a  changed  expression  he  added,  whispering  :  "  An' 
that  same  played  the  divil  intirely.  'T  was  for  that 
they  arrested  us." 

"  Don't  whisper !"  interposed  the  resident  magis- 
trate, curtly. 

"Egor  !  I'll  say  nothing  at  all,"  said  Jerry,  who 
seemed  now  for  the  first  time  to  consider  the  pres- 
ence of  the  official. 

"  Yes — don't  be  afraid,"  Bernard  urged,  reassur- 
ingly, "  It  's  all  right  now.  Tell  me,  is  O'Daly  in 
the  place  we  know  of  ?" 

"  He  is,  thin  !  Egor,  unless  he  'd  wings  on  him, 
and  dug  his  way  up  through  the  sayling,  like  a 
blessed  bat." 

"  Did  he  make  much  fuss?" 

*•  He  did  not — lastewise  we  didn't  stop  to  hear. 


286         The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 


He  came  down  wid  us  ais}'  as  you  plaze,  an'  I 
unlocked  the  dure.  '  'T  is  a  foine  room,'  says  I. 
'  'T  is  that,'  says  he.  '  Here  's  whishky,'  says  I. 
'  I  'd  be  lookin'  for  that  wherever  you  were,'  says 
he,  '  even  to  the  bowels  of  the  earth.'  '  An'  why 
not?'  says  I.  'What  is  it  the  priest  read  to  us, 
that  it  makes  a  man's  face  to  shine  wid  oil  ?'  *  A 
grand  scholar  ye  are,  Jerry,'  says  he—" 

"  Cut  it  short,  Jerry  !"  interposed  Bernard.  "The 
main  thing  is  you  left  him  there  all  right?" 

"  Well,  thin,  we  did,  sir,  an'  no  mistake." 

"  My  plan  is,  major," — Bernard  turned  to  the  resi- 
dent magistrate — "  to  take  my  friend  here,  Jerry 
Higgins,  with  us,  to  the  place  I've  been  speaking 
of.  We'll  leave  the  other  man  here,  as  the  editors 
say  in  my  countr}'-,  as  a  '  guarantee  of  good  faith.' 
The  only  point  is  that  we  three  must  go  alone.  It 
wouldn't  do  to  take  an}'  constables  with  us.  In  fact, 
there's  a  secret  about  it,  and  I  wouldn't  feel  justified 
in  giving  it  away  even  to  you,  if  it  didn't  seem  nec- 
essary.    We  simply  confide  it  to  you." 

"  You  can't  confide  anything  to  me,"  said  the  resi- 
dent magistrate.  **  Understand  clearly  that  I  shall 
hold  myself  free  to  use  everything  I  see  and  learn, 
if  the  interests  of  justice  seem  to  demand  it." 

"  Yes,  but  that  isn't  going  to  happen,"  responded 
Bernard.  "  The  interests  of  justice  are  all  the  other 
wa}^  as  you  '11  see,  later  on.  What  I  mean  is,  if  the 
case  isn't  taken  into  court  at  all — as  it  won't  be — we 
can  trust  you  not  to  speak  about  this  place." 

"  Oh — in  my  private  capacity — that  is  a  different 
matter." 

"  And  you  won't  be  afraid  to  go  alone  with  us  ?— <• 


The  Resident  Magistrate. 


it  isn't  far  from  here,  but,  mind,  it  is  downright 
lonesome." 

Major  Snaffle  covered  the  two  men — the  burly, 
stout  Irishman  and  the  lithe,  erect,  close-knit  young 
American — with  a  comprehensive  glance.  The 
points  of  his  mustache  trembled  momentarily 
upward  in  the  beginning  of  a  smile.  "  No — not  the 
least  bit  afraid,"  the  dapper  little  gentleman  replied. 

The  constables  at  the  outer  door  stood  with  their 
big  red  hands  to  their  caps,  and  saw  with  amaze- 
ment the  major,  Bernard  and  Jerry  pass  them  and 
the  cars,  and  go  down  the  street  abreast.  The 
villagers,  gathered  about  the  shop  and  cottage  doors, 
watched  the  progress  of  the  trio  with  even  greater 
surprise.  It  seemed  now,  though,  that  nothing  was 
too  marvelous  to  happen  in  jNluirisc.  Some  of 
them  knew  that  the  man  with  the  fiower  in  his  coat 
was  the  stipendary  magistrate  from  Bantr}-,  and, 
by  some  obscure  connection,  this  came  to  be  inter- 
preted throughout  the  village  as  meaning  that  the 
bodies  of  both  O'Daly  and  Miss  Kate  had  been 
found.  The  stories  which  were  born  of  this  under- 
standing flatly  contradicted  one  another  at  every 
point  as  they  flew  about,  but  they  made  a  good 
enough  basis  for  the  old  women  of  the  hamlet  to 
start  keening  upon  afresh. 

The  three  men,  pausing  now  and  again  to  make 
sure  they  were  not  followed,  went  at  a  sharp  pace 
around  through  the  churchyard  to  the  door  of 
Jerry's  abode,  and  entered  it.  The  key  and  the 
lantern  were  found  hanging  upon  their  accustomed 
pegs.    Jerry  lighted   the   candle,  pushed  back   the 


288  The  Return  of  The   O Mahony. 

bed,  and  led  the  descent  of  the  narrow,  musty  stairs 
through  the  darkness.     The  major  came  last  of  all. 

*'  I've  only  been  down  here  once  myself,"  Bernard 
explained  to  him,  over  his  shoulder,  as  they  made 
their  stumbling  way  downward.  •'  It  seems  the 
place  was  discovered  by  accident,  in  the  old  Fenian 
days.  I  suppose  tlie  convent  used  it  in  old  times — 
they  say  there  was  a  skeleton  of  a  monk  found  in 
it." 

"  Whisht,  now  !"  whispered  Jerry,  as,  having 
passed  through  the  long,  low  corridor  leading  from 
the  staircase,  he  came  to  a  halt  at  the  doorwa}'. 
"  Maybe  we'll  surproise  him." 

He  unlocked  the  door  and  flung  it  open.  No 
sound  of  life  came  from  within. 

"  Come  along  out  'o  that,  Cormac  !"  called  Jerry, 
into  the  mildewed  blackness. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Bernard  almost  pushed  Jerry  forward  into  the 
chamber,  and,  taking  the  lantern  from  him,  held  it 
aloft  as  he  moved  about.  He  peered  under  the 
table ;  he  opened  the  great  muniment  chest ;  he 
pulled  back  the  ciytains  to  scrutinize  the  bed. 
There  was  no  sign  of  O'Dal}^  anywhere. 

"  Saints  be  wid  us  !"  gasped  Jerry,  crossing  him- 
self, "  the  divil  's  flown  away  wid  his  own  !" 

Bernard,  from  staring  in  astonishment  into  his 
confederate's  fat  face,  let  his  glance  wander  to  the 
major.  That  olihcial  had  stepped  over  the  threshold 
of  the  chamber,  and  stood  at  one  side  of  the  open 
door.      He  held  a  revolver  in  his  gloved,  right  hand. 

"  Gentlemen."  he  said,  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice, 
"  my  father  served  in  Ireland  in  Fenian  times,  and 


The  Resident  Magistrate.  289 

an  American-Irishman  caught  him  in  a  trap,  gagged 
him  with  gnn-rags,  and  generally  made  a  fool  of  him. 
Such  things  do  not  happen  twice  in  any  intelligent 
famil}'.  You  w^ill  therefore  walk  through  this  door, 
arm  in  arm,  handing  me  the  lantern  as  you  pass,  and 
you  will  then  go  up  the  stairs  six  paces  ahead  of  me. 
If  either  of  you  attempts  to  do  anything  else,  I  will 
shoot  him  down  like  a  dog." 


CHAPTER    XXVIl. 

THE   RETURN    OF   THE   O'MAHONY. 

Bernard  had  never  before  had  occasion  to  look 
into  the  small  and  ominously  black  muzzle  of  a 
loaded  revolver.  An  involuntary  twitching-  seized 
upon  his  muscles  as  he  did  so  now,  but  his  presence 
of  mind  did  not  desert  him. 

"  No!  Don't  shoot !"  he  called  out.  The  words 
shook  as  he  uttered  them,  and  seemed  to  his  ner- 
vously acute  hearing  to  be  crowded  parts  of  a  single 
sound.  "That's  rank  foolishness!"  he  added,  hur- 
riedly. "  There  's  no  trick  !  Nobody  dreams  of 
touching  3'^ou.  I  give  you  my  word  I  'm  more 
astonished  than  you  are!" 

The  major  seemed  to  be  somewhat  impressed  by 
the  candor  of  the  young  man's  tone.  He  did  not 
lower  the  weapon,  but  he  shifted  his  finger  awa}' 
from  the  trigger. 

"  That  may  or  may  not  be  the  case,"  he  said  with 
a  studious  affectation  of  calm  in  his  voice.  "  At  all 
events,  you  will  at  once  do  as  I  said." 

"  But  see  here,"  urged  Bernard,  "  there's  an 
explanation  to  everything.  I  '11,  swear  that  old 
[290] 


The  Rcttirn  of  The  OMahony.         29 1 

O'Daly  was  put  in  here  by  our  friend  here — Jerry 
Ilig-gins.     That  's  straight,  isn't  it,  Jerry?" 

"  It  is,  sir!"  said  Jerry,  fervently,  with  eye  askance 
on  the  revolver. 

"  And  it  's  evident  enough  that  he  couldn't  have 
got  out  by  himself." 

"  That  he  never  did,  sir." 

"Well,  then — let's  figure.  How  many  people 
know  of  this  place  ?" 

"  There's  yoursilf,"  responded  Jerry,  meditatively, 
"  an'  mesilf  an'  Linsky — me  cousin,  Joseph  Higgins, 
I  mane.  That's  all,  if  ye  I'ave  O'Daly  out.  An' 
that  's  what  bothers  me  wits,  who  the  divil  didVave 
him  out?".. 

"  This  cousin  of  yours,  as  you  call  him,"  put  in 
the  resident  magistrate — "what  did  he  mean  by 
speaking  of  him  as  Linsky  ?     No  lying,  now." 

"Lying-,  is  it,  your  honor?  'T  is  aisy  to  see 
you  're  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  to  spake  that  word 
to  me.  Egor,  't  is  me  truth-tellin'  's  kept  me  the 
poor  man  I  am.  I  remember,  now,  sir,  wance  on  a 
time  whin  I  was  only  a  shlip  of  a  lad — " 

"What  did  you  call  him  Linsky  for?"  Major 
Snaffle  demanded,  peremptorily. 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Jerry,  unabashed,  "  't  is 
because  he  's  freckles  on  him.  '  Linsky  '  is  the  Irish 
for  a  'freckled  man!'  Sure,  O'Daly  would  tell  you 
the  same — if  yer  honor  could  find  him." 

The  major  did  not  look  entirely  convinced. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  he  said,  with  grim  sarcasm  ; 
"  every  man,  woman  and  child  of  3'ou  all  would  tell 
the  same.     Come  now — we  'II  get  up   out  of  this. 


292  TJie  Return  of  The  G i\Iaho7iy. 

Link  your  arms  together,  and  give  me  the  lan- 
tern." 

"  By  3'our  I'avc,  sir,"  interposed  Jerry,  "  that 
trick  ye  tokl  us  of  your  father — w'u'd  that  have 
been  in  a  marteller  tov/er,  on  the  coast  beyant  Kin- 
sale?  Egor,  sir,  I  was  there!  'T  was  me  tuk  the 
gun-rags  from  your  father's  mouth.  Sure,  't  is  in 
me  ricolliction  as  if  't  was  yesterday.  There  stud 
The  O'Mahon}^ — " 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  on  his  tongue,  Jerry 
stopped  short.  The  secret  of  that  expedition  had 
been  preserved  so  long.  Was  there  danger  in 
revealing  it  now. 

To  Bernard  the  name  suggested  another  thought. 
He  turned  swiftly  to  Jerry. 

"  Look  here  !"  he  said.  "  You  forgot  something. 
The  O'Mahony  knew  of  this  place." 

"  Well,  thin,  he  did,  sir,"  assented  Jerry.  "  'T 
v/as  him  discovered  it  altogether." 

"  Major,"  the  young  man  exclaimed,  wheeling 
now  to  again  confront  the  magistrate  with  his 
revolver,  "  there  's  something  queer  about  this 
whole  thing.  I  don't  understand  it  any  more  than 
30U  do.  Perhaps  if  we  put  our  heads  together  we 
could  figure  it  out  between  us.  It  's  foolishness  to 
stand  like  this.  Let  me  light  the  candles  here,  and 
all  of  us  sit  down  like  white  men.  That  's  it,"  he 
added  as  he  busied  himself  in  carrying  out  his  sug- 
gestion, to  which  the  magistrate  tacitly  assented. 
"  Now  we  can  talk.  We  '11  sit  here  in  front  of  you, 
and  you  can  keep  out  your  pistol,  if  you  like." 

"Well?"  said  Major  Snaffle,  inquiringh%  when  he 
had  seated  himself  between  the  others  and  the  door, 


The  Rclnm  of  The  O Mahony.  293 

vet  sidewise,  so  tliat  he  might  not  be  taken 
unawares  b}'  any  new-comer. 

"  Tell  him,  Jerr\',  who  this  O'IMahony  of  yours 
was,"  directed  Bernard. 

"  Ah,  thin — a  grand  divil  of  a  man  !"  said  Jerr}^ 
with  enthusiasm.  "  'T  was  he  was  the  master  of  all 
Muirisc.  Sure  't  was  mesilf  was  the  first  man  he 
gave  a  w-ord  to  in  Ireland  wliin  he  landed  at  the 
Cove  of  Cork.  '  Will  ye  come  along  wid  me?'  sa3's 
he.  '  To  the  inds  of  the  earth!'  says  I.  And  wid 
that—" 

"  He  came  from  America,  too,  did  he?"  queried 
the  major.  "  Was  that  the  same  man  who — who 
played  the  trick  on  my  father?  You  seem  to  know 
about  that." 

"  Egor,  't  was  the  same !"  cried  Jerry,  slapping 
his  fat  knee  and  chuckling  with  delight  at  the 
memor}'.  "  'T  was  all  in  the  winkin'  of  an  eye — an' 
there  he  had  him  bound  like  a  calf  goin'  to  the  fair, 
an'  he  cartin'  him  on  his  own  back  to  the  boat.  Up 
wint  the  sails,  an'  off  we  pushed,  an'  the  breeze 
caught  us,  an'  whin  the  soldiers  came,  faith,  't  was 
safe  out  o'  raych  we  were.  An'  thin  The  O'Mahony 
— God  save  him  ! — came  to  your  honor's  father — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  story,"  interrupted  the  major. 
"  It  doesn't  amuse  me  as  it  does  you.  But  what 
has  this  man — this  O'Mahony — got  to  do  with  this 
present  case  ?" 

*'  It  's  like  this,"  explained  Bernard,  "as  I  under- 
stand it:  He  left  Ireland  after  this  thing  Jerry's 
been  telling  you  about  and  went  fighting  in  other 
countries.  He  turned  his  property  over  to  two 
trustees  to   manage   for  the   benefit  of  a  little  girl 


294  The  Rctitni  of  The  O' IMahony. 

here — now  Miss  Kate  O'Mahony.  O'Daly  was  one 
of  the  trustees.  What  does  he  do  but  marry  the 
girl's  mother — a  widow — and  lay  pipes  to  put  the 
girl  in  a  convent  and  steal  all  the  money.  I  told 
you  at  the  beginning  that  it  was  a  family  squabble. 
1  happened  to  come  along  this  way,  got  interested 
in  the  thing,  and  took  a  notion  to  put  a  spoke  in 
O'Daly 's  wheel.  To  manage  the  convent  end  of 
the  business  I  had  to  go  away  for  two  or  three  days. 
While  I  was  gone,  I  thought  it  would  be  safer  to 
have  O'Daly  down  here  out  of  mischief.  Now 
you  *ve  got  the  whole  story.  Or,  no,  that  isn't  all, 
for  when  I  got  back  I  find  that  the  young  lady  her- 
self has  disappeared  ;  and,  lo  and  behold,  here  's 
O'Daly  turned  up  missing,  too !" 

**  What  's  that  you  say  ?"  asked  Major  Snaffle. 
"  The  young  lady  gone,  also  ?" 

"  Is  it  Miss  Kate  ?"  broke  in  Jerry.  "  Oh,  thin,  't 
is  the  divil's  worst  work !  Miss  Kate  not  to  be 
found — is  that  your  m'aning  ?  'T  is  notconsa3-vable." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there  's  anything  serious  in 
that^'  said  Bernard.  "  She  '11  turn  out  to  be  safe 
and  snug  somewhere  when  everything  's  cleared  up. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  where  's  O'Daly  ?  How  did 
he  get  out  of  here  ?" 

The  major  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  door. 
He  examined  its  fastenings  and  lock  with  attention. 

"  It  can  only  be  opened  from  the  outside,"  he 
remarked  as  he  returned  to  his  seat. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Bernard.  "  And  I  've  got  a 
notion  that  there  's  only  one  man  alive  who  could 
have  come  and  opened  it." 

"  Is  it  Lin — me  cousin,  you  mane?"  asked  Jerry. 


Tkc  Retitrii  of  The   G Mahony.  295 

"  Egor  !  He  was  never  out  of  me  sight,  daylight  or 
dark,  till  they  arrested  us  together." 

"No,"  replied  Bernard.  "I  didn't  mean  him. 
The  man  I  'm  thinking  of  is  The  O'Mahony 
himself." 

Jerry  leaped  to  his  feet  so  swiftly  that  the  major 
instinctively  clutched  his  revolver  anew.  But 
there  was  no  menace  in  Jerry's  manner.  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  his  fat  face  reddened  in  the  candle's 
pale  glow,  his  gray  eyes  ashine,  his  mouth  expand- 
ing in  a  grin  of  amazed  delight.  Then  he  burst 
forth  in  a  torrent  of  eager  questioning. 

"  Don't  you  mane  it  ?"  he  cried.  "  The  O'Mahony 
come  back  to  his  own  ag'in?  Wu'd  he — is  it — oh, 
thin,  't  is  too  good  to  be  thrue,  sir  !  An'  we  sittin* 
here!  An'  him  near  by!  Kxi  me  not — ah,  come 
along  out  'o  this !  An'  ye're  not  desay vin'  us,  sir  ? 
He's  thruly  come  back  to  us  ?" 

"  Don't  go  too  fast,"  remonstrated  Bernard  ."  It 's 
only  guess-work  There's  nothing  sure  about  it  at 
all.  Onl}'  there's  no  one  else  who  could  have  come 
here." 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  sir !"  exclaimed  Jerry,  all  afire  now 
with  joyous  confidence.  "  'T  is  a  fine,  grand  intelli- 
gince  ye  have,  sir.  An'  will  we  be  goin',  now,  major, 
to  find  him  ?" 

Under  the  influence  of  Jerry's  great  excitement, 
the  other  two  had  risen  to  their  feet  as  well. 

The  resident  magistrate  toyed  dubiously  with  his 
revolver,  casting  sharp  glances  of  scrutiny  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  faces  before  him,  the  while 
he  pondered  the  probabilities  of  truth  in  the  curious 
tale  to  which  he  had  listened. 


296  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

The  official  side  of  him  clamored  for  its  entire 
rejection  as  a  lie.  Like  most  of  his  class,  with  their 
superficial  and  hostile  observation  of  an  alien  race, 
his  instincts  were  all  against  crediting  anything 
which  any  Irish  peasant  told  him,  to  begin  with, 
Furthermore,  the  half  of  this  strange  story  had  been 
related  by  an  Irish-American — a  type  regarded  by 
the  ofBcial  mind  in  Ireland  with  a  peculiar  intensity 
of  suspicion.     Yes,  he  decided,  it  was  all  a  falsehood. 

Then  he  looked  into  the  3'oung  man's  face  once 
more,  and  wavered.  It  seemed  an  honest  face.  If 
its  owner  had  borne  even  the  homeliest  and  most 
plebeian  of  Saxon  labels,  the  major  was  conscious 
that  he  should  have  liked  him.  The  Milesian  name 
carried  prejudice,  it  was  true,  but — 

"  Yes,  we  will  go  up,"  he  said,  "  in  the  manner  I 
described.  I  don't  see  what  j'our  object  would  be 
in  inventing  this  long  rigmarole.  Of  course,  you 
can  see  that  if  it  isn't  true,  it  will  be  so  much  the 
worse  for  you." 

"  We  ought  to  see  it  by  this  time,"  said  Bernard, 
with  a  suggestion  of  weariness.  "You've  men- 
tioned it  often  enough.  Here,  take  the  lantern. 
We  'U  go  up  ahead.  The  door  locks  itself.  I  have 
the  key." 

The  three  men  made  their  way  up  the  dark,  tor- 
tuous flight  of  stairs,  replaced  the  lantern  and  key 
on  their  peg  in  Jerry's  room,  and  emerged  once 
more  into  the  open.  They  filled  their  lungs  with 
long  breaths  of  the  fresh  air,  and  then  looked  rather 
vacuously  at  one  another.  The  major  had  pocketed 
his  weapon. 

"  Well,  what 's  the  programme  ?"  asked  Bernard. 


The  Ret  urn  of  The  G  Mahony.  297 

Before  any  answer  came,  their  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  the  figure  of  a  stranger,  sauntering 
about  among  the  ancient  stones  and  black  wooden 
crosses  scattered  over  the  weed-grown  expanse  of 
the  churchyard.  He  was  engaged  in  deciphering 
the  names  on  the  least  weather-beaten  of  these 
crosses,  but  only  in  a  cursory  way  and  with  long 
intermittent  glances  over  the  prospect  of  ivy-grown 
ruins  and  gray  walls,  turrets  and  gables  be3'ond. 
As  they  watched  him,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  be- 
come aware  of  their  presence.  Forthwith  he 
turned  and  strolled  toward  them. 

i\.s  he  advanced,  they  saw  that  he  was  a  tall  and 
slender  man,  whose  close-cut  hair  and  short  mus- 
tache and  chin  tuft  produced  an  effect  of  extreme 
whiteness  against  a  notably  tanned  and  sun-burnt 
skin.  Though  evidently  well  along  in  3^ears,  he 
walked  erect  and  with  an  elastic  and  springing  step. 
He  wore  black  clothes  of  foreign,  albeit  genteel 
aspect.  The  major  noted  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat  a 
tell-tale  gleam  of  red  ribbon — and  even  before  that 
had  guessed  him  to  be  a  Frenchman  and  a  soldier. 
He  leaped  swiftly  to  the  further  assumption  that 
this  was  The  O'Mahony,  and  then  hesitated,  as 
Jerry  showed  no  sign  of  recognition. 

The  stranger  halted  before  them  with  a  little  nod 
and  a  courteous  upward  wave  of  his  forefinger. 

"  A  fine  day,  gentlemen,"  he  remarked,  with 
politeness. 

Major  Snaffle  had  stepped  in  front  of  his  com- 
panions. 

"  Permit  me  to  introduce  myself,"  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  resolution^  "  i  am  the  stipendiary  magistrate 


298  The  Return  of  The  O MaJiony. 

of  the  district.  Would  you  kindl}'  tell  me  it  you 
are  informed  as  to  the  present  whereabouts  of  Mr. 
Cormac  O'Daly,  of  this  place  ?" 

The  other  showed  no  trace  of  surprise  on  his 
browned  face. 

"  Mr.  O'Daly  and  his  step-daughter,"  he  replied, 
affably  enough,  "are  just  now  doing  me  the  honor 
of  being  my  guests,  aboard  my  vessel  in  the 
harbor."    . 

Then  a  twinkle  brightened  his  gray  eyes  as  he 
turned  their  glance  upon  Jerry's  red,  moon-like 
face.  He  permitted  himself  the  briefest  of  dry 
chuckles. 

"  Well,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  they  seem  to  have 
fed  you  pretty  well,  anyway,  since  J  saw  you  last." 

For  another  moment  Jerry  stared  in  round-eyed 
bewilderment  at  the  speaker.  Then  with  a  wild 
"  Huroo !''  he  dashed  forward,  seized  his  hand  and 
wrung  it  in  both  of  his. 

"  God  bless  ye !  God  bless  ye !"  he  gasped, 
between  little  formless  ejaculations  of  dazed  delight. 
"God  forgive  me  for  not  knowin'  ye — you  're  that 
althered  !  But  for  you  're  back  amongst  us — aloive 
and  well — glory  be  to  the  world  !" 

He  kept  close  to  The  O'Mahony's  side  as  the 
group  began  now  to  move  toward  the  gate  of  the 
churchyard,  pointing  to  him  with  his  fat  thumb,  as 
if  to  call  all  nature  to  witness  this  glorious  event, 
and  murmuring  fondly  to  himself:  "You  're  come 
home  to  us!"  over  and  over  again. 

"  1  am  much  relieved  to  learn  what  you  tell  me, 
Mr. —  Or  rather,  I  believe  3^ou  are  O'Mahony  with- 
out the  mister,"  said  Major  Snaffle,  as  they  walked 


The  Return  of  The  O Mahony.  299 

out  upon  the  green.  "  I  dare  say  you  know — this 
has  beeti  a  very  bad  winter  all  over  the  west  and 
south,  and  crime  seems  to  be  increasing,  instead  of 
tlie  reverse,  as  spring  advances.  We  have  had  the 
gravest  reports  about  the  disaffection  in  this 
district — especially  among  your  tenants.  That  's 
why  we  gave  such  ready  credence  to  the  theor}^  of 
murder." 

"Murder?"  queried  The  O'Mahony.  "  Oh,  I  see 
— you  thought  O'Daly  had  been  murdered  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  arrested  your  man  Higgins,  here, 
yesterday.  I  w^as  just  on  the  point  of  starting  with 
him  to  Bantry  jail,  an  hour  ago,  when  this  young 
gentleman — "  the  major  made  a  backward  gesture 
to  indicate  Bernard — "  came  and  said  he  knew 
where  O'Daly  was.  He  took  me  downi  to  that 
curious  underground  chamber — " 

"  Who  took  you  down,  did  you  say  ?"  asked  The 
O'Mahony,  sharply.  He  turned  on  his  heel  as  he 
spoke,  as  did  the  major. 

To  their  considerable  surprise,  Bernard  was  no 
longer  one  of  the  party.  Their  dumfounded  gaze 
ranged  the  expanse  of  common  round  about.  He 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

The   O'Mahoney  looked  almost  sternly  at  Jerry. 

"  Who  is  this  3-oung  man  you  had  with  you — who 
seems  to  have  taken  to  running  things  in  my 
absence  ?"  he  demanded. 

Poor  Jerr}',  who  had  been  staring  upward  at  the 
new-comer  with  the  dumb  admiration  of  an  affec- 
tionate spaniel,  cowered  humbl}'  under  this  glance 
and  tone. 


300         The  RetiLvii  of  The  G Mahony. 

"  Well,  yer  honor,"  he  stammered,  plucking  at 
the  buttons  of  his  coat  in  embarrassment,  "  egor, 
lor  the  matter  of  that — I — I  don't  rightly  know." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A    MARINE   MORNING   CALL. 

The  young  man  from  Houghton  County,  strolling 
along  behind  these  three  men,  all  so  busil}'  occupied 
with  one  another,  had,  of  a  sudden,  conceived  the 
notion  of  dropping  silently  out  of  tiie  party. 

He  had  put  the  idea  into  execution  and  was 
secure  from  observation  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
ditcii,  before  the  question  of  what  he  should  do  next 
shaped  itself  in  his  mind.  Indeed,  it  vras  not  until 
he  had  made  his  wav  to  the  little  old-fashioned  pier 
and  come  to  an  enforced  halt  among  the  empty 
barrels,  drying  nets  and  general  marine  odds  and 
ends  which  littered  the  landing-stage,  that  he  knew 
what  purpose  had  brought  him  hither. 

But  he  perceived  it  now  with  great  clearness. 
Wlu;t  otlier  purpose,  in  truth,  did  existence  itself 
contain  for  him  ? 

"  I  want  to  be  rowed  over  at  once  to  that  vessel 
there,"  he  called  out  to  Jolin  Pat,  who  made  one  of 
a  group  of  Muirisc  men,  in  white  jackets  and  soft 
black  hats,  standing  beneath  him  on  the  steps.  As 
he  descended  and  took  his  seat  in  one  of  the  wait- 
ing  dingeys,  he  noted    other   clusters    of  villagers 

[301] 


302  TJie  Return  of  The   O Mahoiiy . 

along  the  shore,  all  concentrating  an  eager  interest 
upon  the  yawl-rigged  craft  which  lay  at  anchor  in 
the  harbor.  They  pointed  to  it  incessantly  as  they 
talked,  and  others  could  be  seen  running  forward 
across  the  green  to  join  thein.  He  had  never  sup- 
posed Muirisc  capable  of  such  a  display  of  anima- 
tion. 

"  The  people  seem  tickled  to  death  to  get  The 
O'Mahony  back  again,"  he  remarked  to  John  P\at, 
as  they  shot  out  under  the  first  long  sweep  of  the 
oars. 

"  They  are,  sir,"  was  the  stolid  response, 
"  Did    your  brother   come    back  with    him — that 
one-armed    man   who   went   after   him — Malachy,  I 
think  they  called  him  ?" 

"  He  did,  sur,"  said  Pat,  simply. 
•'Well" — Bernard    bent    forward    impatientl}'  — 
"  tell  me  about  it!     Where  did  he  find  him  ?     What 
do  people  sa}-  ?" 

"  They  do  be  saying  manny  things,"  responded 
the  oarsman,  rounding  his  shoulders  to  the  work. 

Bernard  abandoned  the  inquir}^  with  a  grunt  of 
discouragement,  and  contented  himself  perforce  b}' 
watching  the  way  in  which  the  strange  craft  waxed 
steadily  in  size  as  they  sped  toward  her.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  more,  he  was  alongside  and  clambering 
up  a  rope-ladder,  which  dangled  its  ends  in  the 
gently  heaving  water. 

Save  for  a  couple  of  obviously  foreign  sailors 
lolling  in  the  sunshine  upon  a  sail  in  the  bows,  there 
was  no  one  on  deck.  As  lie  looked  about,  however, 
in  speculation,  the  apparition  of  a  broad,  black  liat, 
witij  long,  curled  plumes,  rose  above  the  companion- 


A  Marine  Morni7ig  Call.  3O3 

way.  He  welcomed  it  with  an  exclamalion  of  de- 
light, and  ran  forward  with  outstretched  hands. 

The  wearer  of  the  hat,  as  she  stepped  upon  the 
deck  and  confronted  this  demonstration,  confessed 
to  surprise  by  stopping  short  and  lifting  her  black 
brows  in  inquir}'.  Bernard  sheepishly  let  his  hands 
fall  to  his  side  before  the  cool  glance  with  which  she 
regarded  him. 

"Is  it  viewing  the  vessel  you  are?"  she  asked. 
"  Her  jigger  lug-sail  is  unusual,  I  'm  told. 

The  young  man's  blue  ej'es  glistened  in  reproach- 
ful appeal. 

"  What  do  I  know  about  lugger  jig-sails,  or  care, 
either,"  he  asked.  "  I  hurried  here  the  moment  I 
heard,  to — to  see  you  !" 

"  'T  is  flattered  I  am,  I'm  sure,"  said  Kate,  dryly, 
looking  away  from  him  to  the  brown  cliffs  beyond. 

"Come,  be  fair!"  Bernard  pleaded.  "Tell  me 
what  the  matter  is.  I  thought  I  had  every  reason  to 
suppose  3'ou  'd  be  glad  to  see  me.  it 's  plain  enough 
that  you  are  not;  but  you — you  might  tell  me  why. 
Or  no,"  he  went  on,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone, 
"I  won't  ask  you.  It 's  your  own  aflair,  after  all. 
Only  you  '11  excuse  the  way  I  rushed  up  to  3'ou.  1  'd 
had  my  head  full  of  3'our  affairs  for  days  past,  and 
then  your  disappearance — they  thought  you  were 
drowned,  3'Ou  know — and  I — I — " 

The  3'oung  man  broke  off  with  weak  inconclusive- 
ness.  and  turned  as  if  to  descend  the  ladder  again. 
But  John  Pat  had  rowed  away  with  the  boat,  and  he 
looked  blankly  down  upon   the  clear  water  instead. 

Kate's  voice  sounded  with  a  mellower  tone  behind 
him. 


304  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

"I  wouldn't  have  ye  go  in  anger,"  she  said. 

Bernard  wheeled  around  in  a  flash. 

"Anger!"  he  cried,  with  a  radiant  smile  chasing 
all  the  shadows  from  his  face.  "  Why,  how  on  earth 
co7ild  I  be  angry  \N\t\\you?  No  ;  but  I  was  going 
away  most  mightil}'  down  in  the  mouth,  though  — 
that  is,"  he  added,  with  a  rueful  kind  of  grin,  "  if  my 
boat  hadn't  gone  off  without  me.  But,  honestly, 
now,  when  I  drove  in  here  this  morning  from  Skib- 
bereen,  I  felt  like  a  victorious  general  coming  home 
from  the  wars.  1  'd  done  everything  I  wanted  to  do. 
I  had  the  convent  business  blocked,  and  I  had 
O'Dal}^  on  the  hip  ;  and  I  said  to  myself,  as  we  drove 
along:  'She'll  be  glad  to  see  me.'  I  kept  saying 
that  all  the  while,  straight  from  Skibbereen  to 
Muirisc.  Well,  then — you  can  guess  for  yourself — 
it  was  like  tumbling  backward  into  seven  hundred 
feet  of  ice-water !" 

Kate's  face  had  gradually  lost  its  implacable 
rigidity,  and  softened  now  for  an  instant  into  almost 
a  smile. 

"  So  much  else  has  happened  since  that  drive  of 
3'ours,"  she  said  gently.  "  And  what  were  )-e  doing 
at  Skibbereen?" 

"  Well,  3'ou  '11  open  j^«r  eyes!"  predicted  Ber- 
nard, all  animation  once  again  ;  and  then  he  related 
the  details  of  his  journey  to  Skibbereen  and  Cashel, 
of  his  interviews  with  the  prelates  and  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  had,  so  to  speak,  wound  up  the 
career  of  the  convent  of  the  Hostage's  Tears.  "  It 
hadn't  had  any  real,  rightdown  legitimate  title  to 
existence,  you  know,"  he  concluded,  "  these  last 
five  hundred  years.     All  it  needed  was    somebody 


A  Marine  Morning  Call.  305 

to  call  attention  to  this  fact,  you  see,  and,  bang,  the 
whole  thing  collapsed  like  a  circus-tent  in  a 
cyclone  I" 

The  girl  had  moved  over  to  the  gunwale,  and 
now  leaning  over  the  rail,  looked  meditatively  into 
the  water  below. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  with  a  pensive  note  in  her 
voice,  "  there  's  an  end  to  the  historic  convent  of 
the  O'Mahonys  !  No  other  family  in  Ireland  had 
one — 't  was  the  last  glory  of  our  poor,  hunted  and 
plundered  and  poverty-striken  race;  and  now  even 
that  must  depart  from  us." 

"  Well — hang  it  all !"  remonstrated  Bernard — 
"  it  's  better  that  way  than  to  have  jjw/  locked  up  all 
)'Our  life.  I  feel  a  little  blue  myself  about  closing 
up  the  old  convent,  but  there  's  something  else  I 
feel  a  thousand  times  more  strongly  about  still." 

"  Yes — isn't  it  wonderful  ? — the  return  of  The 
O'Mahony  !"  said  Kate.  *'  Oh,  I  hardly  know  still 
if  I  'm  waking  or  not.  'T  was  all  like  a  blessid 
vision,  and  V  zuas  supernatural  in  its  wa}'  ;  I  '11 
never  believe  otherwise.  There  was  I  on  the  strand 
yonder,  with  the  talisman  he  'd  given  me  in  me 
arms,  praying  for  his  return — and,  behold  you  there 
was  this  boat  of  his  forninst  me  !  Oh  !  Never  tell 
me  the  age  of  miracles  is  past  ?" 

"I  won't — I  promise  you!"  said  Bernard,  with 
fervor.  "  I  've  seen  one  myself  since  I  've  been  here. 
It  was  at  the  Three  Castles.  I  had  my  gun  raised 
to  shoot  a  heron,  when  an  enchanted  fairy — " 

"  Nothing  to  do  but  he  'd  bring  me  on  board," 
Kate  put  in,  hastily.  "Old  Murphy  swam  out  to 
him  ahead  of  us,  screaming  wid  delight  like  one 


J 


06         The  Return  of  The  GMahony. 


possessed.  And  we  sat  and  talked  for  hours — he 
telling  strange  stories  of  the  war's  he  *d  been  in  wid 
the  French,  and  thin  wid  Don  Carlos,  and  thin  the 
Turks,  and  thin  wid  some  outlandish  people  in  a 
Turkish  province — until  night  fell,  and  he  wint 
ashore.  And  whin  he  came  back  he  brougiit  O'Daly 
wid  him — wherein  the  Lord's  name  hefouiKl  him 
passes  my  understanding,  and  thin  we  up  sail  and 
beat  down  till  we  stood  off  Three  Castle  Head. 
There  we  la}'-  all  night — O'Mahony  gav^e  up  his 
cabin  to  me — and  this  morning  back  we  came  again. 
And  now — the  Lord  be  praised  ! — there  's  an  ind  to 
all  our  throubles  I" 

"Well,"  said  Bernard,  with  deliberation,"!  'm 
glad.  I  really  am  glad.  Although,  of  course,  it  's 
plain  enough  to  see,  there  's  an  end  to  me,  too." 

A  brief  time  of  silence  passed,  as  the  two,  leaning 
side  by  side  on  the  rail,  watched  the  slow  rise  and 
sinking  of  the  dull-green  wavelets. 

"  You  're  off  to  i\meriky,  thin  ?"  Kate  finally 
asked,  without  looking  up. 

The  young  man  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  he  said,  slowl}'.  "  I  've  got  a 
curious  hand  dealt  out  to  me.  I  hardly  know  how 
to  pla)^  it.  One  thing  is  sure,  though  :  hearts  are 
trumps." 

He  tried  to  catch  her  glance,  but  she  kept  her 
eyes  resolutel}'  bent  upon  the  water. 

"  You  know  what  I  want  to  say,"  he  went  on, 
moving  his  arm  upon  the  rail  till  there  was  the  least 
small  fluttering  suggestion  of  contact  with  hers.  It 
must  have  said  itself  to  3'ou  that  day  upon  the 
mountain-top,  or,  for   that   matter,  why,  that  very 


A   Mai'inc  A'lorning  Call.  %0'] 

first  time  I  saw  you  I  went  away  head  over  heels  in 
love.  1  tell  you,  candidly,  I  haven't  thought  or 
dreamed  for  a  minute  of  anything-  else  from  that 
blessed  day.  It  's  all  been  fairyland  to  me  ever 
since.  I  've  been  so  happy  !  jNIay  I  stay  in  fair}'- 
land,  Kate  ?" 

She  made  no  answer.  Bernard  felt  her  arm 
tremble  against  his  for  an  instant  before  it  was 
withdrawn.  He  noted,  too.  the  bright  carmine  flush 
spring  to  her  cheek,  overmantle  her  dark  face  and 
then  fade  away  before  an  advancing  pallor.  A  tear 
glittered  among  her  downcast  lashes. 

"  You  mustn't  deny  me  my  age  of  miracles!"  he 
murmuringly  pleaded.  *'  It  zvas  a  miracle  that  we 
should  have  met  as  we  did ;  that  I  should  have 
found  you  afterward  as  I  did;  that  I  should  have 
turned  up  just  when  you  needed  help  the  most ;  that 
the  stra}^  discover}^  of  an  old  mediceval  parchment 
should  have  given  me  the  hint  what  to  do.  Oh, 
don't  you  feel  it,  Kate  ?  Don't  you  realize,  too,  dear, 
that  there  was  fate  in  it  all?  That  we  belonged 
from  the  beginning  to  each  other  ?" 

Very  white-faced  and  grave,  Kate  lifted  herself 
erect  and  looked  at  him.  It  was  with  an  obvious 
effort  that  she  forced  herself  to  speak,  but  her 
words  were  firm  enough  and  her  glance  did  not 
weaver. 

"  Unfortunately,"  she  said,  ''your  miracle  has  a 
trick  in  it.  Even  if  't  would  have  pleased  me  to 
believe  in  it,  how  can  I,  whin  't  is  founded  on 
desate." 

Bernnrd  stared  at  her  in  round-eyed  wonderment. 

*'  How  'deceit'?"  he  stammered.     "  How  do  ^^ou 


o 


08  TJie  Return  of  The   OMahony, 


mean?  Is  it  about  kidnapping  O'Daly  ?  We  only 
did  that—" 

"  No,  't  is  ///w,"  said  Kate — "  we  '11  be  open  with 
each  other,  and  it  's  a  grief  to  me  to  say  it  to  3'Oii, 
whom  I  have  liked  so  much,  but  you  're  no  O'Ma- 
hony  at  all." 

The  young  man  with  difficulty  grasped  her  mean- 
ing. 

"  Well,  if  you  remember,  I  never  said  I  knew  m}' 
father  was  one  of  the  O'Mahonys,  you  know.  All  I 
said  was  that  he  came  from  somewhere  in  County 
Cork.     Surel}',  there  was  no  deceit  in  that." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  what  ye  said  was  that  your  name  was 
O'Mahony." 

"  Well,  so  it  is.  Good  heavens  !  TJiat  isn't  dis- 
puted, is  it  ?" 

"And  you  said,  moreover,"  she  continued,  gravel  v, 
"that  your  father  knew  onr  O'Mahony  as  well 
almost  as  he  knew  himsilf." 

"  Oh-h  !"  exclaimed  Bernard,  and  fell  thereupon 
into  confused  rumination  upon  many  thoughts 
which  till  then  had  been  curiously  subordinated  in 
his  mind. 

"  And,  now,"  Kate  went  on,  with  a  sigh,  "  whin  f 
mintion  th'is  to  The  O'Mahony  himself,  he  sajs  he 
never  in  his  life  knew  au}^  one  of  your  father's  name. 
O'Daly  was  witness  to  it  as  well." 

Bernard  had  his  elbows  once  more  on  the  rail. 
He  pushed  his  chin  hard  against  his  upturned  palms 
and  stared  at  the  skyline,  thinking  as  he  had  never 
been  forced  to  think  before. 

"  Surely  there  was  no  need  for  the— the  misstate- 


A  Marine  Hlorniiio   Call.  309 

ment,"  said  Kate,  in  mournful  recognition  of  what 
she  took  to  be  his  dumb  self-reproach.  "  See  now 
how  useless  it  was— and  a  thousand  times  worse 
than  useless!  See  how  it  prevints  me  now  from 
respecting  you  and  being  properly  grateful  to  you 
for  what  you  've  done  on  me  behalf,  and — and — " 

She  broke  off  suddenly.  To  her  consternation 
she  had  discovered  that  the  young  man,  so  far  from 
being  stricken  speechless  in  contrition,  was  grinning 
gayly  at  the  distant  landscape. 

Turning  with  abruptness  she  walked  indignantly 
aft.  Cormac  O'Daly  had  come  up  from  below,  and 
stood  wistfully  gazing  landward  over  the  taffrail. 
She  joined  him,  and  stood  at  his  side  flushed  and 
wrathful. 

Bernard  was  not  wholly  able  to  chase  the  smile 
from  his  face  as  he  rose  and  sauntered  over  toward 
her.  She  turned  her  back  as  he  approached  and 
tapped  the  deck  nervously  with  her  foot.  Nothing 
dismayed,  he  addressed  himself  to  O'Daly,  who 
seemed  unable  to  decide  whether  also  to  look  the 
other  way  or  not. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said  affably.  "  You  're 
quite  a  stranger,  Mr.  O'Daly." 

Kate,  at  his  first  word,  had  walked  briskly  away 
up  the  deck,  Cormac's  little  black  eyes  snapped 
viciously  at  the  intruder. 

"  At  laste  I  'm  not  such  a  stranger,"  he  retorted, 
"  but  that  me  thrue  name  is  known,  an'  I  'm  here  be 
the  invitation  of  the  owner." 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  take  things  so  hard,  Mr. 
O'Daly,"  said  Bernard.  "  An  easy  disposition  would 


3IO  The  Retiirn  of  The  O' JMahony. 

come  very  handy  to  j'oii,  seein:^  the  troubles  )ou 
've  got  to  go  through  with  yet." 

The  small  man  gazed  apprehensively  at  his 
tormentor. 

"  I  don't  foll}^  ye,"  he  stammered. 

"  I  'm  going  to  propose  that  you  sJiall  follow  me, 
sir,"  replied  the  3'Oung  man  in  an  authoritative  tone. 
"  I  understand  that  in  conversation  last  night 
between  your  step-daughter  and  you  and  The — the 
owner  of  this  vessel,  the  question  of  my  name  was 
brought  up,  and  that  it  was  decided  that  I  was  a 
fraud.  Now,  1  'm  not  much  given  to  making  a  fuss, 
but  there  are  some  things,  especiall}^  at  certain 
times,  that  I  can't  stand — not  for  one  little  minute. 
This  is  one  of  'em.  Now  I  'm  going  to  suggest 
that  we  hail  one  of  those  boats  there  and  go  ashore 
at  once — you  and  Miss  Kate  and  I — and  clear  this 
matter  up  without  delay." 

"  We  '11  remain  here  till  The  O'Mahony  returns  !" 
said  O'Daly,  stiffly.  "  'T  was  his  request.  'T  is 
no  interest  of  mine  to  clear  the  matther  up,  as  you 
call  it." 

"Well,  it  was  no  interest  of  mine,  Mr.  O'Dal}^" 
remarked  Bernard,  placidly,  "  to  go  over  the  min- 
ing contracts  3'ou  've  made  as  trustee  during  the 
past  dozen  3^ears  and  figure  out  all  the  various  items 
of  the  estate's  income  ;  but  I  've  done  it.  It  makes 
a  very  curious  little  balance-sheet.  I  had  intended 
to  fetch  it  down  with  me  to-day  and  go  over  it  with 
you  in  your  underground  retreat." 

"  In  the  devil's  name,  who  are  you  ?"  snarled 
Cormac,  with  livid  face  and  frightened  eyes. 

*'  That's  just  what  I  proposed  we  should  go  right 


A  Marine  Morning  Call.  311 

and  settle.  If  3011  object,  wh}^  I  shall  go  alone. 
But  in  that  case,  it  may  happen  that  1  shall  have  to 
discuss  with  the  gentleman  who  has  just  arrived  the 
peculiarities  of  that  balance-sheet  I  spoke  of.  What 
do  you  think,  eh  ?" 

O'Dal}'  did  not  hesitate. 

"  Sur,  I  '11  go  wid  3'ou,"  he  said.  "  The  O'Mahony 
has  no  head  for  figures.  'T  would  be  flat  injustice 
to  bother  him  wid  'em,  and  he  only  newly  landed." 

Bernard  walked  lightl}^  across  the  deck,  humming 
a  little  tune  to  himself  as  he  advanced,  and  halting 
a  short  foot  from  where  Kate  stood. 

"  O'Daly^  's  going  ashore  with  me,"  he  remarked. 

"  He  dare  not  !"  she  answered,  over  her  shoulder. 
"  The  O'Mahony-  bade  him  stop  here." 

"  Well,  this  is  more  or  less  of  a  free  country,  and 
he  's  changed  his  mind.  He  's  going  with  me.  I — I 
want  you  to  come,  too." 

"  'T  is  loikely^ !"  she  said,  with  a  derisive  sniff. 

"  Kate,"  he  said,  drawing  nearer  to  her  by-  a  step 
and  speaking  in  low,  earnest  tones,  "  1  hate  to  plead 
this  sort  of  thing  ;  but  you  have  nothing  but  candid 
and  straightforward  friendship  from  me.  I  've  done 
a  trifle  of  13-ing  fcr  3-ou,  perhaps,  but  none  to  you. 
I  've  worked  for  you  as  I  never  worked  for  m\-self. 
I  've  run  risks  for  3()u  which  nothing  else  under 
the  sun  would  have  tempted  me  into.  All  that 
doesn't  matter.  Leave  that  out  of  the  question.  I 
did  it  because  1  love  you.  And  for  that  selfsame 
reason  I  come  now  and  ask  this  favor  of  30U.  You 
can  send  me  away  afterward,  if  a'Ou  like;  but  3-ou 
can't  bear  to  stop  here  now,  thinking  these  things  of 
me,  and  refusing  to  come  out  and  learn  for  yourself 


312  The  Return  of  The  O'Mahony. 

whether  the}^  are  true  or  false,  for  that  would  be 
unfair,  and  it  's  not  in  your  blood— in  our  blood— to 
be  that." 

The  girl  neither  turned  to  him  nor  spoke,  but  he 
could  see  the  outline  of  her  face  as  she  bowed  her 
head  and  gazed  in  silence  at  the  murmuring  water; 
and  something  in  this  sight  seemed  to  answer  him. 

He  strode  swiftly  to  the  other  side  of  the  vessel, 
and  exultantly  waved  his  handkerchief  in  signal  to 
the  boatmen  on  the  shore. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

DIAMOND     CUT     PASTE. 

The  O'Mahony  sat  once  more  in  the  living-room 
of  his  castle — sat  very  much  at  his  ease,  Avith  a  cigar 
between  his  teeth,  and  his  feet  comfortabl}'  stretched 
out  toward  the  blazing  bank  of  turf  on  the  stone 
hearth. 

A  great  heap  of  papers  lay  upon  the  table  at  his 
elbow — the  contents  of  0'Dal3-'s  strong-box,  the  key 
to  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from  the  vessel — 
but  not  a  single  band  of  red  tape  had  been  untied. 
The  O'Mahony's  mood  for  investigation  had 
exhausted  itself  in  the  work  of  getting  the  docu- 
ments out.  His  hands  were  plunged  deep  into  his 
trousers',  pockets  now,  and  he  gazed  into  tlie  glow- 
ing peat. 

His  home-coming  had  been  a  thing  to  warm  the 
most  frigid  heart.  His  own  beat  delightedly  still  at 
the  thought  of  it.  From  time  to  time  there  reached 
his  ears  from  the  square  without  a  vague  bra3ing 
noise,  the  sound  of  which  curled  his  lips  into  t!ie 
semblance  of  a  grin.  It  seemed  so  droll  to  him  that 
Muirisc  should  have  a  band — a  fervent  half-dozen  of 
amateurs,  with  ancient  and  battered  instruments 
which  successive  generations  of  regimental  musi. 

[31 3l 


314  T^^^^  Rctitrn  of  The   O' Makony. 

cians  liad  pawned  at  Skibbereen  or  Bantry,  and  on 
which  tliey  played  now,  neither  by  note  nor  by  ear, 
but  solely  by  main  strength. 

The  tumult  of  discord  which  they  produced  was 
dreadful,  but  The  O'Mahony  liked  it.  He  had  been 
pleasurably  touched,  too,  by  the  wild  enthusiasm  of 
greeting  with  which  INIuirisc  had  met  him  when  he 
disclosed  himself  on  the  main  street,  walking  up  to 
the  police-station  with  Major  Snaffle  and  Jerry.  All 
the  older  inhabitants  he  knew,  and  shook  hands 
with.  The  sight  of  younger  people  among  them 
whom  he  did  not  know  alone  kept  alive  the  recol- 
lection that  he  had  been  absent  twelve  long  years. 
Old  and  young  alike,  and  preceded  b}^  the  hurriedly 
summoned  band,  they  had  followed  him  in  triumphal 
procession  when  he  came  down  the  street  again, 
with  the  liberated  Jerr}'  and  Linsky  at  his  heels. 
They  were  still  outside,  cheering  and  madl}-  bawl- 
ing their  delight  whenever  the  bandsmen  sto])ped 
to  take  breath.  Jerry,  Linsky  and  the  one-armed 
Malach}-  were  out  among  them,  broaching  a  cask  of 
porter  from  the  castle  cellar  ;  Mrs.  Fergus  and  Mis. 
Sullivan  were  in  the  kitchen  cutting  up  bread  and 
meat  to  go  with  the  drink. 

No  wonder  there  were  cheers!  Small  matter  for 
marvel  was  it,  either,  that  The  O'Mahonv  smiled  as 
he  settled  down  still  more  lazily  in  his  arm-chair  and 
pushed  his  feet  further  toward  the  fire. 

Presently  he  must  go  and  fetch.  O'Daly  and  Kate 
from  the  vessel — or  no,  when  Jerry  came  in  he 
W'ould  send  him  on  that  errand.  After  his  long 
journey  The  O'Mahony  was  tired  and  sleepy — all 
the  more  as  he  had  sat  up  must  of  the  night,  out  on 


Diamond  Cut  Paste. 


o'D 


deck,  talking  with  O'Daljv'.  What  a  journey  it  had 
been  !  Post-haste  from  far  away,  barbarous  Armenia, 
where  the  faithful  Malach}'-  had  found  him  in  com- 
mand of  a  Turkish  battalion,  resting-  after  the  task 
of  suppressing  a  provincial  rebellion.  Home  t'r.cy 
had  ^vended  their  tireless  way  by  Constantinoj)Ie 
and  INIalta  and  mistral-swept  Marseilles,  and  thence 
by  land  across  to  Havre.  Here,  oddl}'^  enough,  he 
had  fallen  in  with  the  French  merchant  to  whom  he 
had  sold  the  Hen  Hawk  twelve  years  before — the 
merchant's  son  had  served  with  him  in  the  Army  of 
the  Loire  three  3'ears  later,  and  was  his  friend — and 
he  had  been  able  to  gratify  the  sudden  fantastic 
whim  of  returning  as  he  had  departed  in  the  quaint, 
flush-decked,  3'awl-rigged  old  craft.  It  all  seemed 
like  a  dream  ! 

"  If  your  honor  plazes,  there  's  a  3'oung  gintleman 
at  the  dure — a  Misther  O'Mahony,  from  America — 
w'u'd  be  afther  having  a  word  wid  3'e." 

It  was  the  soft  voice  of  good  old  iMrs.  Sullivan 
that  spoke. 

The  O'Mahony  woke  with  a  start  from  his  com- 
placent da3--dream.  He  drew  his  feet  in,  sat  upright, 
and  bit  hard  on  his  cigar  for  a  minute  in  scowling 
reflection. 

"  Show  him  in,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  then  straight- 
ened himself  truculentl}'  to  receive  this  meddling- 
new-comer.  He  fastened  a  stern  and  hostile  gaze 
upon  the  door. 

Bernard  seemed  to  miss  entirel3'  the  frosty  element 
in  his  reception.  He  advanced  with  a  light  step, 
hat  in  hand,  to  the  side  of  the  hearth,  and  held  one 


J 


1 6  T/ie  Return  of  The  O MaJwny, 


hand  with  famihar  nonchalance  over  the  blaze,  while 
he  nodded  amiably  at  his  frowning  host. 

"  I  skipped  off  rather  suddenly  this  morning,  "  he 
said,  with  a  pleasant  half-smile,  "because  I  didn't 
seem  altogether  needful  to  the  party  for  the  minute, 
and  I  had  something  else  to  do.  1  've  dropped  in 
now  to  say  that  I  'm  as  glad  as  anybody  here  to  see 
you  back  again.  I  've  only  been  about  Muirisc  a 
few  weeks,  but  1  already  feel  as  if  I  'd  been  born 
and  brought  up  here.  And  so  I'  ve  come  around  to 
do  my  share  of  the  welcoming." 

"  You  seem  to  have  made  yourself  pretty  much  at 
home,  sir,"'  commented  The  O'Mahonx-,  icily. 

"  You  mean  putting  O'Daly  down  in  the  family 
vault?"  queried  the  3-oung  man.  "  Yes,  perhaps  it 
was  making  a  little  free,  but,  you  see,  time  pressed. 
I  couldn't  be  in  two  places  at  once,  now,  could  I  ? 
And  while  I  went  off  to  settle  the  convent  business, 
there  was  no  telling  what  O'Daly  mightn't  be  up  to 
if  we  left  him  loose;  so  I  thought  it  was  best  to 
take  the  liberty  of  shutting  him  up.  You  found 
liiin  tlierc,  I  judge,  and  took  him  out." 

The  O'Mahon}'-  nodded  curtly,  and  eyed  his 
visitor  with  cool  disfavor. 

"  As  long  as  you  're  here,  sir,  you  might  as  well 
lake  a  seat."  he  said,  after  a  minute's  pause.  "  That 
's  if.  Now,  sir,  hrst  of  all,  perliaps  you  wouldn't 
niiiul  telling  me  who  you  are  and  what  the  devil 
you  mean,  sir,  by  coming  here  and  meddling  in  this 
way  with  other  people's  private  affairs." 

"  Curious,  isn't  it,"  remarked  the  young  man 
from  Houghton  County,  blandly,  "  how  we  Ameri. 


Dtamo7id  Ciit  Paste. 


cans  lug  in  the  word  'sir'  every  other  breath? 
They  tell  me  no  Eng-lishman  ever  uses  it  at  all." 

The  O'Mahony  stirred  in  his  chair. 

"  I'm  not  as  easy-going  a  man  or  as  good-natured 
as  I  used  to  be,  my  young  friend,"  he  said,  with  an 
affectation  of  calm,  through  which  ran  a  threatening 
note. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it,"  protested  Bernard. 
"  You  seemed  the  pink  of  politeness  out  there  in  the 
graveyard  this  morning.  But  I  suppose  years  of 
campaigning — " 

"  See  here  !"  the  other  interposed  abruptly.  "  Don't 
fool  with  me.  It's  a  risk}^  game!  Unless  you 
want  trouble,  stop  monkeying  and  answer  my  ques- 
tion straight :     Who  are  you  ?" 

The  young  man  had  ceased  smiling.  His  face  had 
all  at  once  become  very  grave,  and  he  was  staring  at 
The  O'Mahony  with  wide-open,  bewildered  eyes. 

"  True  enough  !"  he  gasped,  after  his  gaze  had 
been  so  protracted  that  the  other  half  rose  from  his 
seat  in  impatient  anger.  "  Wh}^ — yes,  sir!  I  '11 
swear  to  it — well — this  does  beat  all !" 

"  Your  cheek  beats  all !"  broke  in  The  O'Mahon}-, 
springing  to  his  feet  in  a  gust  of  choleric  heat. 

Bernard  stretched  forth  a  restraining  hand. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  in  evidently  sincere 
anxiety  not  to  be  misunderstood,  and  picking  his 
words  slowly  as  he  went  along,  "  hold  on — I'm  not 
fooling!  Please  sit  down  again.  I've  got  some- 
thing important,  and  mighty  queer,  too,  to  sa}^  to 
you." 

The  O'Mahony,  with  a  grunt  of  reluctant  acqui- 
escing, sat  down  once  more,     The  two  men  looked 


o 


1 8  The  Return  of  The  O MaJiony 


at  each  other  with  troubled  glances,  the  one  vaguely 
suspicious,  the  other  still  round-eyed  with  surprise. 

"Yon  ask  who  I  am,"  Bernard  began.  "  I  'II  tell 
3'ou.  [  was  a  little  shaver — oh,  six  or  seven  years 
old — just  at  the  beginning  of  the  War.  My  father 
enlisted  when  they  began  raising  troops.  The  re. 
cruiting  tent  in  our  town  was  in  the  old  hay-market 
by  the  canal  bridge.  It  seems  to  me,  now,  that  they 
must  have  kept  ni}^  father  there  for  weeks  alter  he 
'd  put  his  uniform  on.  I  used  to  go  there  every 
da}^  I  know,  with  my  mother  to  see  him.  But  there 
was  another  soldier  there — this  is  the  queer  thing 
about  a  boy's  memory — I  remember  him  ever  so 
much  better  than  1  do  my  own  father.  It  's — let  's 
see — eighteen  years  now,  but  I  'd  know  him  to  this 
day,  wherever  1  met  him.  He  carried  a  gun,  and  he 
walked  all  day  long  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
tent,  like  a  polar  bear  in  his  cage.  We  boys 
thought  he  was  the  most  important  man  in  the 
whole  army.  Some  of  them  knew  him — he  be- 
longed to  our  section  originally,  it  seems — and  they 
said  he  'd  been  in  lots  of  wars  before.  I  can  see  him 
now,  as  plainly  as — as  I  see  you.  His  name  was 
Tisdale — Zeb,  I  think  it  was — no,  Zeke  Tisdale." 

Perhaps  The  O'Mahony  changed  color.  He 
sat  with  his  back  to  the  window,  and  the  ruddy 
glow  from  the  peat  blaze  made  it  impossible  to  tell. 
But  he  did  not  take  his  sharp  gray  eye  off  Ber- 
nard's face,  and  it  never  so  much  as  winked. 

"  Very  interesting,"  he  said,  "  but  it  doesn't  go 
very  far  toward  explaining  who  you  are.  If  I'm 
not  mistaken,  that  was  the  question." 

'*Me?"   answered    Bernard.     "  Oh,  yes,  I   forgot 


D{amo7id  Ciit  Paste.  319 

that.  Well,  sir,  1  am  the  only  surviving  son  of  one 
Hugh  O'Mahony,  who  was  a  shoemaker  in  Tecum- 
seh,  who  served  in  the  same  regiment,  perhaps  the 
same  company,  with  this  Zeke  Tisdale  I  've  told  you 
about,  and  who,  after  the  War,  moved  out  to  xMichi- 
gan  where  he  died." 

An  oppressive  silence  settled  upon  the  room. 
The  O'Mahony  still  looked  his  companion  straight 
in  the  face,  but  it  was  with  a  lack-luster  eye  and 
with  the  effect  of  having  lost  the  physical  power  to 
look  elsewhere.  He  drummed  with  his  fingers  in 
a  mechanical  way  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  as  he 
kept  up  this  abstracted  and  meaningless  gaze. 

There  fell  suddenly  upon  this  long-continued 
silence  the  reverberation  of  an  exceptionally  vio- 
lent outburst  of  uproar  from  the  square. 

"  Cheers  for  The  O'Mahony  !"  came  from  one  of 
the  lustiest  of  the  now  well-lubricated  throats  ;  and 
then  followed  a  scattering  volley  of  wild  hurroosand 
echoing  yells. 

As  these  died  away,  a  shrill  voice  lifted  itself, 
screaming : 

"  Come  out,  O'Mahon}',  an'  spake  to  us  !  We  're 
dyin'  for  a  sight  of  you  !" 

The  elder  man  had  lifted  his  head  and  listened. 
Then  he  squinted  and  blinked  his  eyelids  convul- 
sively and  turned  his  head  away,  but  not  before 
Bernard  had  caught  the  glint  of  moisture  in  his 
eyes. 

The  young  man  had  not  been  conscious  of  being 
specially  moved  by  what  was  happening.  All  at 
once  he  could  feel  his  pulses  vibrating  like  the 
strings  of  a  harp.     His  heart   had  come  up  into  his 


320         The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

throat.  Nothing  was  visible  to  him  but  the  stormy 
affection  which  Muirisc  bore  for  this  war-born, 
weather-beaten  old  impostor.  And,  clearly  enough, 
Jie  himself  was  thinking  of  only  that. 

Bernard  rose  and  stepped  to  the  hearth,  instinc- 
tively holding  one  of  his  hands  backward  over  the 
fire,  though  the  room  was  uncomfortably  hot, 

"  They  're  calling  for  you  outside,  sir,"  he  said, 
almost  deferentially. 

The  remark  seemed  stupid  after  he  had  made  it, 
but  nothing  else  had  come  to  his  tongue. 

The  lurking  softness  in  his  tone  caught  the  other's 
ear,  and  he  turned  about  fiercely. 

"See  here!"  he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "How 
much  more  of  this  is  there  going  to  be  ?  1  '11  fight 
you  where  you  stand — here  ! — now  ! — old  as  I  am — 
or  I  '11 — I  'II  do  something  else — anything  else — but 
d — n  me  if  I  '11  take  any  slack  or  soft-soap  from 
yo7i  !" 

This  unexpected  resentment  of  his  sympathetic 
mood  impressed  Bernard  curiousl}'.  Without  hesi- 
tation, he  stretched  forth  his  hand.  No  responsive 
gesture  was  offered,  but  he  went  on,  not  heeding 
this. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  said,"  they  are  calling  for  you, 
as  I  said.  The}^  are  hollering  for  'The  O'Mahony 
of  iSluirisc.'  You  are  The  O'Mahony  of  Muirisc, 
and  will  be  till  you  die.     You  hear  me  /" 

The  O'Mahony  gazed  for  a  puzzled  minute  into 
his  young  companion's  face. 

"  Yes — I  hear  you,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 

"  You  —are  T/ie  —  O'Mahony  —  of  —  Muirisc  !" 
repeated  Bernard,  with  a  deliberation  and  emphasis  ; 


Diamond  Ctct  Paste.  3  2 1 

"  and  I  '11  whip  any  man  out  of  his  boots  who  says 
you  're  not,  or  so  much  as  looks  as  if  he  doubted 
it!" 

The  old  soldier  had  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  began  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  cham- 
ber.    After  a  time  he  looked  up. 

"  I  s'pose  you  can  prove  all  this  that  you  've  been 
sa3'ing?"  he  asked,  in  a  musing  way. 

"  No — prove  nothing  !  Don't  want  to  prove  any- 
thing !"  rejoined  Bernard,  stoutly. 

Another  pause.  The  elder  man  halted  once  more 
in  his  meditative  pacing  to  and  fro. 

"  And  you  say  I  ant  The — The  O'Mahony  of 
Muirisc?"  he  remarked. 

"  Yes,  I  said  it ;  I  mean  it !" 

"  Well,  but—" 

"  There  's  no  *  but*  about  it,  sir  !" 

"Yes,  there  is,"  insisted  The  O'Mahony,  drawing 
near  and  tentatively  surrendering  his  iiand  to  the 
other's  prompt  and  cordial  clasp.  "  Supposing  it 
all  goes  as  you  say — supposing  I  am  The  O'Mahony 
— what  2irQ you  going  to  be?" 

The  young  man's  eyes  glistened  and  a  happy 
change — half-smile,  half-blush — blossomed  all  over 
his  face. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  still  holding  the  other's  hand  in 
his,  "  1  don't  know  just  how  to  tell  you — because  I 
am  not  posted  on  the  exact  relationships ;  but  I  '11 
put  it  this  way  :  If  it  was  your  daughter  that  you 
'd  left  on  the  vessel  there  with  O'Daly,  I  'd  say  that 
what  I  propose  to  be  was  your  son-in-law.     See  ?" 

It  was  only  too  clear  that  The  O'Mahony  did  see. 
He   had   frowned   at   the  first  adumbration  of  the 


322  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony, 

idea.  He  pulled  his  hand  away  now,  and  pushed 
the  young  man  from  him. 

"  No,  you  don't!"  he  cried,  angrily.  "  No,  sirree  ! 
You  can't  make  any  such  bargain  as  that  with  me  ! 
Why — I'd  'a'  thought  you  'd  'a'  known  me  better  ! 
Me,  going  into  a  deal,  with  little  Katie  to  be  traded 
off?     Why,  man,  you  're  a  fool  !" 

The  O'Mahony  turned  on  his  heel  contemptu- 
ously and  strode  up  and  down  the  room,  with 
indignant  sniffs  at  every  step.  All  at  once  he 
stopped  short. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  an  argument 
with  himself,  "  I  '11  tell  you  to  get  out  of  this!  You 
can  go  and  do  what  you  like — just  whatever  you 
may  please — but  1  'm  boss  here  yet,  at  all  events, 
and  I  don't  want  anybody  around  me  who  could 
propose  that  sort  of  thing.  Me  make  Kate  marry 
you  in  order  to  feather  my  own  nest !  There's  the 
door,  young  man !" 

Bernard  looked  obdurately  past  the  outstretched 
forefinger  into  the  other's  face. 

"  Who  said  anything  about  your  making  her 
marry  me?"  he  demanded.  "And  who  talked 
about  a  deal?  Why,  look  here,  colonel" — the 
random  title  caught  the  ear  of  neither  speaker  nor 
impatient  listener — "  look  at  it  this  way  :  They  all 
love  you  here  in  Muirisc  ;  they  're  just  boiling  over 
with  joy  because  they  've  got  you  here.  That  sort 
of  thing  doesn't  happen  so  often  between  landlords 
and  tenants  that  one  can  afford  to  bust  it  up  when 
it  does  occur.  And  I — well — a  man  would  be  a 
brute  to  have  tried  to  come  between  you  and  these 
people.     Well,  then,  it  's  just  the  same  with  me  and 


Diamond  Cut  Paste.  323 

Katie.  We  love  each  other — we  are  glad  when 
we  're  together;  we  're  unhappy  when  we  're  apart. 
And  so  1  say  in  this  case  as  I  said  in  the  other,  a 
man  would  be  a  brute — " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me — "  The  O'Mahony 
broke  in,  and  then  was  himself  cut  short. 

"  Yes,  1  do  mean  to  tell  you,"  interrupted  Ber- 
nard ;  "  and,  what  's  more,  she  means  to  tell  you, 
too,  if  you  put  on  your  hat  and  walk  over  to  the 
convent."  Noting  the  other's  puzzled  glance,  he 
hastened  on  to  explain :  "  I  rowed  over  to  your 
sloop,  or  ship,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  after  I  left 
you  this  morning,  and  I  brought  her  and  O'Daly 
back  with  me  on  purpose  to  tell  you." 

Before  The  O'Mahony  had  mastered  this  confus- 
ing piece  of  information,  much  less  prepared 
verbal  comment  upon  it,  the  door  was  thrust  open; 
and,  ushered  in,  as  it  were,  by  the  sharply  resound- 
ing clamor  of  the  crowd  outside,  the  burly  figure  of 
Jerry  Higgins  appeared. 

"  For  the  love  o'  God,  yer  honor,"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  high  fever  of  excitement,  "  come  along  out  to 
'em !  Sure  they  're  that  mad  to  lay  eyes  on  ye, 
they  're  'ating  each  other  like  starved  lobsters  in  a 
pot!  Ould  Barney  DriscoU's  the  divil  wid  the 
dhrink  in  him,  an'  there  he  is  ragin'  up  an'  down, 
wid  his  big  brass  horn  for  a  weapon,  crackin'  skulls 
right  an'  left;  an'  black  Clancy  's  asleep  in  his  drum 
— 't  was  Sheehan  putt  him  into  it  neck  an'  crop — an* 
't  is  three  constables  work  to  howld  the  boys  from 
rollin'  him  round  in  it,  an — an — " 

"  All  right,  Jerry,"  said  The  O'Mahony ;  "  I  '11 
come  right  along. 


324         The  Return  of  The  GMahony. 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  relighted  his  cigar,  in  slow 
and  silent  deliberation.  He  tarried  thereafter  for  a 
moment  or  two  with  an  irresolute  air,  looking  at  the 
smoke-rings  abstractedly  as  he  blew  them  into  the 
air. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  decision,  he  walked  over  and 
linked  Bernard's  arm  in  his  own.  They  went  out 
together  without  a  word.  In  fact,  there  was  no 
need  for  words. 


t 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  FAREWELL    FEAST. 

We  enter  the  crumbling  portals  of  the  ancient 
convent  of  the  0'Mahon3's  for  a  final  visit.  The 
reddened  sun,  with  its  promise  of  a  kindly  morrow, 
hangs  low  in  the  western  heavens  and  pushes  the 
long  shadow  of  the  gateway  onward  to  the  very 
steps  of  the  building.  We  have  no  call  to  set  the 
harsh-toned  jangling  old  bell  in  motion.  The  door 
is  open  and  the  hall  is  swept  for  guests. 

This  hour  of  waning  day  marked  a  unique  occur- 
rence in  the  annals  of  the  House  of  the  Hostage's 
Tears.  Its  nuns  were  too  aged  and  infirm  to  go  to 
the  castle  to  offer  welcome  to  the  newly  returned 
head  of  the  family.  So  The  O'Mahony  came  to 
them  instead.  He  came  like  the  fine  old  chieftain 
of  a  sept,  bringing  his  train  of  followers  with  him. 
For  the  first  time  within  the  recollection  of  man,  a 
long  table  had  been  spread  in  the  reception-hall,  and 
about  it  were  gathered  the  baker's  dozen  of  people 
we  have  come  to  know  in  Muirisc.  Even  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan, flushed  scarlet  from  her  labor  in  the  ill-ap- 
pointed convent  kitchen,  and  visibly  disheartened 
at  its  meagre  results,  had   her  seat  at  the   board 

[325! 


326  The  Return  of  The  O Mahony. 

beside  Father  Jago.  But  they  were  saved  from  the 
perils  of  a  party  of  thirteen  because  the  one-armed 
Malachy,  dour-faced  and  silent,  but  secretly  burst- 
ing with  pride  and  joy,  stood  at  his  old  post  behind 
his  master's  chair. 

There  had  not  been  much  to  eat,  and  the  festival 
stood  thus  early  at  the  stage  of  the  steaming  kettle 
and  the  glasses  so  piping  hot  that  fingers  shrank 
from  contact,  though  the  spirit  beckoned.  And 
there  was  not  one  less  than  twelve  of  these  scorch- 
ing- tumblers — for  in  remote  Muirisc  the  fame  of 
Father  Mathevv  remained  a  vague  and  colorless 
thing  like  that  of  Mahomet  or  Sir  Isaac  Newton — 
and,  moreover,  was  not  The  O'Mahony  come 
home? 

"  Yes,  sir,"  The  O'Mahony  said  from  his  place  at 
the  right  hand  of  Mother  Agnes,  venturing  an 
experimental  thumb  against  his  glass  and  sharply 
withdrawing  it,  "  wherever  I  went,  in  France  or 
Spain  or  among  the  Turks,  I  found  there  had  been 
a  soldier  O'Mahony  there  before  me.  Why,  a 
French  general  told  me  that  right  at  one  time — 
quite  a  spell  back,  I  should  judge — there  were  four- 
teen O'Mahonys  holding  commissions  in  the  French 
army.  Yes,  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  time  of  Louis 
XIX." 

"You  're  wrong,  O'Mahony,"  interrupted  Kate, 
with  the  smile  of  a  spoiled,  favorite  child,  "  't  was 
nineteen  O'Mahonys  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV." 

"  Same  thing,"  he  replied,  pleasantly.  "  It  's  as 
broad  as  it  is  long.  There  the  O'Mahony's  were, 
an3^wa3',  and  every  man  of  'em  a  fighter.  It  set  me 
to  figuring  that  before  they  went  away — when  they 


A  Farewell  Feast.  ^^2^ 


were  all  cooped  up  here  together  on  this  little  neck 
of  land — things  must  have  been  kept  pretty  well  up 
to  boiling  point  all  the  3'ear  round." 

"  An'  who  was  it  ever  had  the  power  to  coop  'em 
up  here  ?"  demanded  Cormac  O'Daly,  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  Heaven  be  their  bed !  'T  was  not  in  thim 
O'Mahonys  to  endure  it  !  Forth  they  wint  in  all 
directions,  wid  bowld  raids  an'  incursions,  b'ating 
the  O'Heas  an'  def'ating  the  Coffeys  wid  slaughter, 
an'  as  fortheO'Driscolls — huh  I — just  tearing  'em  up 
bodily  be  the  roots !  Sir,  't  was  a  proud  day  whin 
an  O'Daly  first  attached  himself  to  the  house  of  the 
O'Mahonys — such  grand  min  as  they  were,  so 
magnanimous,  so  pious,  so  intelligent,  so  fero- 
cious an'  terrifying — sir,  me  old  blood  warms  at 
thought  of  'em  !" 

The  caloric  in  Cormac's  veinsimpelled  him  at  this 
juncture  to  rise  to  this  feet.  He  took  a  sip  from 
his  glass,  then  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and  produced 
the  back  of  an  envelope  from  his  pocket. 

"  O'Mahony,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  full  of  emotion, 
"  I  've  a  slight  pome  here,  just  stated  down  hurriedly 
that  I  '11  take  the  liberty  to  rade  to  the  company 
assimbled.     'T  is  this  way  it  runs  : 

" '  Hark  to  thim  joyous  sounds  that  rise. 
Making  the  face  of  Muirisc  to  be  glad  ! 
'T  is  the  devil's  job  to  believe  one's  eyes — ' " 

"  Well,  thin,  don't  be  trying  !"  brusquely  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Fergus.  As  the  poet  paused  and  strove 
to  cow  his  spouse  with  a  sufficiently  indignant 
glance,  she  leaned  over  the  table  and  addressed  him 
in  a  stage  whisper,  almost  audible  to  the  deaf  old 
nuns  themselves. 


328  The  Return  of  The   GMahony. 

"  Sit  down,  me  man  !"  she  adjured  him.  "  'T  is 
laughing  at  ye  they  are  !  Sure,  d(jcsn't  his  honor 
know  how  different  a  chune  ye  raised  while  he  was 
away !  'T  is  your  part  to  sing  small,  now,  an'  keep 
the  ditch  betwixt  you  an'  observation." 

Cormac  sat  down  at  once,  and  submissively  put 
the  paper  back  in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  humble  and 
wistful  glance  which  he  bent  through  his  spectacles 
at  the  chieftain,  as  that  worthy  resumed  his  remarks. 

The  O'Mahony  did  not  pretend  to  have  missed 
the  adjuration  of  Mrs.  Fergus. 

"  That  started  off  well  enough,  O'Daly,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  you're  getting  too  old  to  have  to  hustle  around 
and  turn  out  poetry  to  order,  as  you  used  to.  I  've 
decided  to  allow  you  to  retire — to  sort  of  knock  off 
your  shoes  and  let  you  run  in  the  pasture.  You 
can  move  into  one  of  the  smaller  houses  and  just 
take  things  easy," 

"  But,  sir — me  secretarial  juties — "  put  in  O'Daly, 
with  quavering  voice. 

"  There  '11  be  no  manner  of  trouble  about  that," 
said  the  O'Mahony,  reassuringly.  "  My  friend,  here, 
Joseph  Higgins,  of  Boston,  he  will  look  out  for  that. 
I  don't  know  that  you  're  aware  of  it,  but  I  took  a 
good  deal  of  interest  in  him  many  years  ago — before 
1  went  away — and  I  foresaw  a  future  for  him.  It 
hasn't  turned  out  jest  as  I  expected,  but  I  'm  satis- 
fied, all  the  same.  Before  I  left,  I  arranged  that  he 
should  pursue  his  studies  during  my  absence."  A 
grimly  quizzical  smile  played  around  the  white 
corners  of  his  mustache  as  he  added  :  "  I  under- 
stand that  he  jest  stuck  to  them  studies  night  and 


A  Farewell  Feast.  329 

day — never  left  'em  once  for  so  much  as  to  go  out 
and  take  a  walk  for  the  whole  twelve  years." 

"  Surely,  sir,"  interposed  Father  Jago,  "  that  's 
most  remarkable !  I  never  heard  tell  of  such 
studiosity  in  Maynooth  itself  !" 

The  O'Mahon}^  looked  gravely  across  the  table  at 
Jerry,  whose  broad,  shining  face  was  lobster-red 
with  the  exertion  of  keeping  itself  straight, 

"  I  believe  there  's  hardly  another  case  on  record," 
he  said.  "  Well,  as  I  was  remarking,  it  's  only 
natural,  now,  that  1  should  make  him  my  secretary 
and  bookkeeper.  I  've  had  a  long  talk  with  him 
about  it — and  about  other  things,  too — and  I  guess 
there  ain't  much  doubt  about  our  getting  along 
together  all  right," 

"  And  is  it  your  honor's  intintion — Will — will  he 
take  over  my  functions  as  bard  as  well  ?"  Cormac 
ventured  to  inquire.  He  added  in  deprecating 
tones:  "Sure,  they  've  always  been  considered 
hereditary." 

"No ;  I  think  we  '11  let  the  bard  business  slide  for 
the  time  being,"  answered  The  O'Mahony.  "  You 
see,  I  've  been  going  along  now  a  good  many  years 
without  any  poet,  so  T  've  got  used  to  it.  There 
was  one  fellow  out  at  Plevna — an  English  news- 
paper man — who  did  compose  some  verses  about 
me — he  seemed  to  think  they  were  quite  funny — 
but  I  shot  off  one  of  his  knee-pans,  and  that  sort  of 
put  a  damper  on  poetry,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 
However,  we  '11  see  how  your  boy  turns  out. 
Maybe,  if  he  takes  a  shine  to  that  sort  of  thing — " 

"Then  you 're  to  stay  with  us?"  inquired  Mother 
Agnes.     "  So  grand  ye  are  wid  your  decorations  an' 


2,^0         The  Return  of  The  G Maho7iy. 

your  foreign  titles — sure,  they  tell  me  you  're 
Chevalier  an'  O'Mahony  Bey  both  at  wance — 't  will 
be  dull  as  ditch-water  for  you  here." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not,"  replied  The  0'Mahon3\ 
"  I  've  had  enough  of  it.  It  's  nigh  on  to  forty 
years  since  1  first  tagged  along  in  the  wake  of  a 
drum  with  a  musket  on  ni}"  shoulder.  I  don't  know 
why  I  didn't  come  back  years  ago.  I  was  too  shift- 
less to  make  up  my  mind,  I  suppose.  No,  I  'm 
going  to  stay  here — going  to  die  here — right  among 
these  good  Muirisc  folks,  who  are  thumping  each 
other  to  pieces  outside  on  the  green.  Talk  about 
its  being  dull  here — why,  Mother  Agnes,  't  would 
have  done  your  heart  good  to  see  old  Barney  Dris- 
coU  laying  about  him  with  that  overgrown,  double- 
barreled  trumpet  of  his.  1  haven't  seen  anything 
better  since  we  butted  our  heads  up  against  Schipka 
Pass." 

"  'T  will  be  grand  tidings  for  the  people — that 
same,"  interposed  Kate,  with  happiness  in  glance 
and  tone. 

The  O'Mahony  looked  tenderly  at  her. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  he  said,  and  then  turned  to 
the  nuns,  lifting  his  voice  in  token  that  he  especially 
addressed  them.  "  There  was  some  talk,  I  under- 
stand, about  little  Katie  here — " 

"  Little,  is  it !"  laughed  the  girl.  "  Sure,  to  pl'ase 
3'ou  I  'd  begin  growing  again,  but  that  there  'd  be 
no  house  in  Muirisc  to  hold  me." 

''  Some  talk  about  big  Kate  here,  then,"  pursued 
the  O'Mahony,  "  going  into  the  convent.  Well,  of 
course,  that  's  all  over  with  now."  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  and  decided   to  withhold  all  that  cruel 


A  Fa  J' ewe  II  Feast.  331 

'. ,       ^ 

information  about  episcopal  interference.  "  And 
I've  been  thinking  it  over,"  lie  resumed,  "and  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  we  'd  better  not  try  to 
bolster  up  the  convent  with  new  girls  from  outside. 
It  's  always  been  kept  strictly  inside  the  family. 
Now  that  that  can't  be  done,  it  's  better  to  let  it  end 
with  dignity.  And  that  it  can't  help  doing,  because 
as  long  as  it  's  remembered,  men  will  say  that  its 
last  nuns  were  its  best  nuns." 

He  closed  with  a  little  bow  to  the  Ladies  of  the 
Hostage's  Tears.  Mother  Agnes  acknowledged  the 
salutation  and  the  compliment  with  a  silent  inclina- 
tion of  her  vailed  head.  If  her  heart  took  grief,  she 
did  not  say  so. 

"  And  your  new  secretary — "  put  in  Cormac,  dif- 
fidently yet  with  persistence,  "  has  he  that  acquaint- 
ance an'  familiarity  wid  mining  technicalities  and 
conthracts  that  would  fit  him  to  dale  wid  'em  satis- 
factorily ?" 

A  trace  of  asperit}',  under  which  O'Daly  definitely 
wilted,  came  into' The  O'Mahony's  tone. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too  smart  about 
mining  contracts,"  he  said  with  meaning.  Then, 
with  a  new  light  in  his  e3'es  he  went  on:  "The 
luckiest  thing  that  ever  happened  on  this  footstool, 
I  take  it,  has  occurred  right  here.  The  young  man 
who  sits  opposite  me  is  a  born  O'Mahony,  the  only 
son  of  the  man  who,  if  I  hadn't  turned  up,  would  have 
had  rightful  possession  of  all  these  estates.  You 
have  seen  him  about  here  for  some  weeks.  I  under- 
stand that  you  all  like  him.  Indeed,  it  's  been 
described  to  me  that  Mrs.  Fergus  here  has  quite  an 
affection  for  him — motherly,  I  presume." 


332  The  Return  of  The  G Mahony. 

Mrs.  Fergus  raised  her  hand  to  her  hair,  and 
preened  her  head. 

"  An'  not  so  old,  nayther,  O'Mahony,"  she  said, 
defiantly.  "Wasn't  I  married  first  whin  I  was  a 
mere  shh"p  of  a  girl  ?" 

Sister  Ellen  looked  at  Mother  Agnes,  and  lifted 
up  both  her  hands.  The  O'Mahony  proceeded, 
undisturbed : 

"  As  I  've  said,  you  all  like  him.  I  like  him  too, 
for  his  own  sake,  and — and  his  father's  sake — and — 
But  that  can  wait  for  a  minute.  It  's  a  part  of  the 
general  good  luck  which  has  brought  him  here  that 
he  turns  out  to  be  a  trained  mining  engineer — just 
the  sort  of  a  man,  of  all  others,  that  Muirisc  needs. 
He  tells  me  that  we  've  only  scratched  the  surface  of 
things  roundabout  here  yet.  He  promises  to  get 
more  wealth  for  us  and  for  Muirisc  out  of  an  acre 
than  we  've  been  getting  out  of  a  townland.  Mala- 
chy,  go  out  and  look  for  old  Murphy,  and  if  he  can 
walk,  bring  him  in  here." 

The  O'Mahony  composedly  busied  himself  in  fill- 
ing his  glass  afresh,  the  while  Malachy  was  absent 
on  his  quest.  The  others,  turning  their  attention  to 
the  boyish-faced,  blushing  young  man  whom  the 
speaker  had  eulogized  so  highly,  noted  that  he  sat 
next,  and  perhaps  unnecessarily  close,  to  Kate,  and 
that  she,  also  betrayed  a  suspicious  warmth  of  coun- 
tenance. Vague  comprehension  of  what  was  com- 
ing began  to  stir  in  their  minds  as  Malachy  reap- 
peared. Behind  him  came  Murphy,  who  leaned 
against  the  wall  by  the  door,  hat  in  hand,  and  clung 
with  a  piercing,  hawk-like  gaze  to  the  lightest  move- 
ment on  the  master's  face. 


■i 


A  Farewell  Feast.  333 

The  O'Mahony  rose  to  his  feet,  glass  in  hand. 

"  Murphy,"  he  said,  "  I  gave  her  to  you  to  look 
after — to  take  care  of — the  Lady  of  Muirisc." 

"  You  did,  sir!"  shouted  the  withered  and  grimy 
old  water-rat,  straightening  himself  against  the 
wall. 

"  You  've  done  it  well,  sir,"  declared  The 
O'Mahony.  "  1  'm  obliged  to  you.  And  I  wanted 
you  in  particular  to  hear  what  I'  m  going  to  say. 
Malachy,  get  a  glass  for  yourself  and  give  one  to 
Murphy." 

The  one-armed  servitor  leaned  gravely  forward 
and  whispered  in  The  O'Mahony's  ear. 

"  I  don't  care  a  button,"  the  other  protested. 
"  You  can  see  him  home.  This  is  as  much  his 
funeral  as  it  is  anybody  else's  on  earth.  That  's  it. 
Are  you  all  filled?  Now,  then,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  am  getting  along  in  years.  I  am  a  childless 
man.  You  've  all  been  telling  me  how  much  I  've 
changed  these  last  twelve  years.  There  's  one 
thing  I  haven't  changed  a  bit  in.  I  used  to  think 
that  the  cutest,  cunningest,  all-fired  loveliest  little 
girl  on  earth  was  Katie  here.  Well,  I  think  just  the 
same  now.  If  I  was  her  father,  mother,  sister,  hired 
girl  and  dog  under  the  wagon,  all  in  one,  I  couldn't 
be  fonder  of  her  than  I  am.  She  was  the  apple  of 
my  eye  then;  she  is  now.  I  'd  always  calculated 
that  she  should  be  my  heir.  Well,  now,  there  turns 
up  this  young  man,  who  is  as  much  an  O'Mahony 
of  the  real  stock  as  Kate  is.  There  's  a  providence 
in  these  things.  They  love  each  other.  They  will 
marry.  They  will  live  in  the  castle,  where  they  've 
promised  to  give  me  board  and  lodging,  and  when  I 


334  ^/^^  Retui'7i  of  The  O Maho7iy, 

am  gone,  they  will  come  after  me.  1  'm  going  to 
have  you  all  get  up  and  drink  the  health  of  my 
young — nephew — Bernard,  and  of  his  bride,  our 
Kate,  here,  and — and  of  the  line  of  O'Mahonys  to 
come." 

When  the  clatter  of  exclamations  and  clinking 
glasses  had  died  down,  it  was  Kate  who  made 
response — Kate,  with  her  blushing,  smiling  face  held 
proudly  up  and  a  glow  of  joyous  affection  in  her 
eyes. 

"  If  that  same  line  of  O'Mahonys  to  come  stretched 
from  here  to  the  top  of  Mount  Gabriel,"  she  said, 
in  a  clear  voice,  "  there  'd  not  be  amongst  thim  al5 
the  ayqual  to  our  O'Mahony." 


THE  END. 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
1249 


